Don't You Know What the Night Can Do?
by editor frog
Summary: A trip to play dice in a college town lands Reid and a friend into more trouble than they could have ever imagined... Contains cameo appearances from characters from other shows, please see disclaimers.
1. The Stranger

**So I got the idea for using music from mabelreid. Being a music lover myself, I thought I'd give this a try. Hope you enjoy!**

**Usual disclaimers, plus any and all songs mentioned are property of their respective artists.

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"Depeche Mode?"

Oliver looked up from his desk, a little startled. "How'd you know? I thought you were into mostly jazz classics."

"Electronica has a lot of similarities. What, you thought I only listen to old jazz?"

"Man, I caught a look at your iPod once. Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles, Bo Diddley, Erykah Badu…I was waiting to see something from The Blues Brothers Band in there."

Oliver's guest smiled and took a seat in the chair across from his desk. "Actually, that's not a bad movie. Garcia gave it to me on my last birthday, and it was pretty funny."

"Pretty funny? Reid, that's a classic. Especially when they tear up that mall!"

A small smile crossed the agent's lips. "Yeah, it is. That and the address being Wrigley Field."

Oliver shook his head. "Remind me to show you the sequel. Plot's a little thin, but the music's great."

"Still, Depeche Mode?"

"Oh." Oliver flicked a switch on his stereo, which was lined against the wall behind him. The strains of "Policy of Truth" died away with the motion. "It's been slow lately."

"I'm surprised you could hear the elevator, let alone a phone go off…"

Oliver smiled. "Light activated. One of the perks of working with a hearing-impaired man."

"Aha."

"Before that, I was listening to Bob Seger."

"Night Moves?"

"Ugh. No. Overplayed, that." Oliver's hand poked a stray pen that was lying on his desk blotter. "Nah, I had "Mainstreet" and "Turn the Page" going for a while. But now that you mention it, "Shakedown" is pretty good…"

Reid smiled and leaned back in the chair. To anyone else, it would seem strange that the young agent seemed at home in a private detective's office, but Reid had spent so much time there that it felt like a second or third home. "Man, there's perks to being private."

"Yeah, but we don't get the cool 'all-access' passes you got."

"Those have limits too, you know."

"Whereas we've got a excellent forger and a lot of good contacts." The grin on Oliver's face could have lit Times Square on New Year's.

"Where is everyone?"

"Chase's off in Miami doing a favor for an old friend of hers, some ex-spy or something, and Kyle's bringing the food. I expect a better showing from you this time, you know…"

"I still don't see why we can't play dice at the Stackhouse," Reid wondered for what seemed like the eighteenth time.

"Because there's some county ordinance that prohibits it," Oliver explained. "Cam and Joe can hide the cards, mainly because everyone but the sheriff himself goes there to play, but dice is another story."

"And…"

"And that idiot sheriff just looking for a reason to shut both us and the Stackhouses down," Oliver finished. "I swear, you'd think it was the Hatfields and McCoys around here."

"Is it?"

"Nah. From what I hear, the guy got snubbed over at the school some years ago, and it was Cam and Joe who led the charge. Chase being Chase, she made sure the snub stuck, and apparently he's had it in for them ever since."

Reid shook his head, then said, "Well, as long as we're waiting…how about some more music?"

"Any requests?"

The agent tilted his head back and closed his eyes, looking to be deep in thought. "Got any Fleetwood Mac?"

"Old or new?"

"You know me…"

"Old it is," Oliver said, and soon the room was filled with the sounds of "Little Lies."

"It's amazing how much the music can say about a person," Reid said suddenly, his head moving in time with the strains of the tune.

"I know. You should see me when I'm playing "Mad World."

"Which version?"

"The real soft one."

"Hmm. I guess I never picked you for soft music."

Oliver chuckled. "Truth be told, you should see Chase when she's alone with this thing. Once I caught her dancing to "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."

Both men tried hard to hold in their laughter as the sight of their friend dancing took over their imaginations.

"I never would have…"

"I know. You'd think something like classical or heavy metal, but no. She's a huge fan of the eighties, really."

"She and Garcia might want to swap playlists," Reid said, laughing. "There's been times I've tried calling her and gotten the song with the crazy gopher…"

"Crazy gopher…?"

"You know, the one in the movie about golf? Apparently it's quite amusing."

Oliver swung his feet up onto his desk, his fingers running under his chin. "Oh!" he said finally. "I know the one. Fits her, it does."

"I know. She told me I was more of an "It's a Wonderful World" kind of guy, but with what's happened to me recently, I dunno…"

Oliver fell silent a moment, and then replied, "Nah. I'd say "Enjoy the Silence" is more your speed."

"That's what I said."

"And?"

Reid exhaled sharply, swiveling back and forth a little in the chair. "She stuck her tongue out at me."

"Nice."

Soon the haunting rhythm of "Come Undone" filled the room, and both men sat in silence as the music washed over them like a wave of emotion rolling through the warm wooden walls.

"God, every time I hear this I feel like I'm the only person on earth," Oliver said as the song ended. "It just grabs hold and doesn't let go, does it?"

"Nope. Same thing with "Ordinary World." It just takes the phrase and turns it on its ear—literally."

"Oooh, good choice." Oliver calmly scrolled through the playlist and hit on a song he hadn't played since his sister had died.

"Who's this?" Reid asked, sitting up in his chair.

"Shh." The strains of "Don't You Know What the Night Can Do?" reverberated off the walls and through the double-paned glass of the second-floor office.

"But…"

"Shut up." Oliver's head kept time to the music, his eyes closed. As the song began to fade, he opened them. "That was Sarah's song. Her favorite."

"Sarah, huh?" a voice said. It startled Reid, making him jump about a foot in the air, and Oliver's calm demeanor was now piqued with curiosity.

"Who are…?" The question died as four more bodies filed into the oversized loft, forming a half-circle around Oliver's desk.

"Oh, I'm hurt now, Oliver," the tall man said, staring the investigator straight in the eyes. Oliver guessed he couldn't be more than a couple of years older than himself. "After all that time your boss spent trying to put me out of business…"

"Look, I don't know who you are," Oliver began, "but now I'm through being polite. Get the hell out of my office."

"Or…what, exactly?" the man said, calmly taking the empty seat next to Reid. The young agent, for his part, stayed perfectly silent. "I mean, would you really…"

Oliver answered the unfinished question with a hand slowly reaching for his top desk drawer.

"All right, now _I'm_ through being polite," the man said, snapping his fingers. Four pistols revealed themselves in seconds, each one trained on either Oliver or Reid. "Now, put your hands where I can see them."

Reid looked into his friend's eyes. He saw Oliver's mind calculating the time it would take to reach the Glock he kept on hand and fire it, and Reid knew without a doubt that Oliver would not be fast enough. He slowly shook his head, hoping it was imperceptible to the men now surrounding them.

Oliver took a deep breath. "What do you want?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and level. "If you're looking for Chase, she's not here…"

"I know. Such a shame. Ah well. I'm sure she'd have tried to stop this."

"What makes you think we won't?" Oliver's eyes flared like bright raindrops hitting tarred concrete.

The man easily picked himself out of his chair and walked behind Reid's, pulling out his own weapon—a three-inch knife. He placed it against the agent's throat, and Oliver noticed there was something about the man that seemed to enjoy the feeling of Reid squirming slightly under the blade's pressure.

"Here's how this'll work," the man said, shaking his dark hair out of his eyes. "You try anything, and your friend here suffers for it." Looking down at Reid, he said, "You try something brave, and Oliver here will be the worse for it. You understand?"

Reid only nodded, mindful of the knife still pressed against him.

"Good." At that, the dark-haired man motioned to his colleagues, who had taken hold of both Oliver and Reid. "We're leaving."


	2. Mainstreet

**Usual disclaimers. Hope you enjoy!

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"Like hell," Oliver spat. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Charlie?"

One of the men holding Reid yanked hard on the agent's arms, pulling them so roughly behind him that Oliver could hear the bones protesting. "All right!" Oliver shouted. "All right." His breaths came out in short gasps, and his shoulders were aching from being physically held in place as 'Charlie' worked his trade on Reid.

"Now, that's better," the dark-haired man said. "You see, it's not that hard a request."

The look on Oliver's face said otherwise. Stealing a glance at his friend, he managed to catch Reid's gaze and shook his head slightly as a warning. Reid, in pain from 'Charlie's' ministrations, nodded once.

"Come on," the man said, and soon the two were frog-marched to the elevator and forced inside. As they rode the rickety lift downward, Reid felt his handcuffs being removed from his belt. "Put them on Oliver here," the dark-haired man said evenly, glaring at him. "I'd have you use his, but I know how close a man can get with his hardware."

Reid balked a little, trying to shy away from the metal bands. His mind raced with fear as he tried not to think about what those silver rings signified—loss of control.

"Oh, I forgot," the man said, as if remembering. "Maybe you're one of those…those people around here that can't hear too well." Standing right in front of Reid's guarded frame, he spoke slowly. "Put them on him, right now."

The young agent looked at Oliver, who nodded once. Slowly, Reid accepted the handcuffs being thrust towards him and fastened them onto Oliver's wrists, securing them behind the investigator's back.

"Make sure they're tight, now," the dark-haired man said, playing a little with the small keys that fit the bands. "Wouldn't want him to get loose."

Struggling to keep his face blank, Reid pressed the metal hinges until they bit slightly into Oliver's flesh. Once he did, he turned his face towards their captor and raised an eyebrow questioningly, as though looking for confirmation.

"Good," the man said, as if praising a small child. The thought made Reid shiver slightly. "Joe, give me those ones on our friend Oliver there."

As the giant enforcer removed his handcuffs, Oliver mentally kicked himself for leaving them on. Normally they would be warming a corner of his desk drawer instead of hanging on his belt, but he'd gotten caught up in the music and forgotten to take them off. He gritted his teeth as he heard them closing around Reid's wrists.

"There. Now, I expect you'll cooperate, yeah?"

"Define 'cooperate'," Oliver said, the urge to be flippant unable to resist. A sharp cry from Reid made him instantly regret it.

"I have to say, your friend Oliver here must enjoy seeing you hurt," the dark-haired man clucked through his teeth. "Is that it, Oliver? Hearing a man scream gets you off?"

His eyes blazing, Oliver fell silent. The heat that radiated off of him was born of pure contempt for this man who'd so calmly invaded his office as now threatened his friend.

"Nah. I didn't think you seemed the type. Oh well." Once the elevator landed, the man stepped out and beckoned that Oliver and Reid follow, 'aided' by their guards.

_The minute we leave this place, we're screwed,_ Oliver thought. There was no way of leaving a message, or dropping something to be traced, or even calling out. Oliver didn't dare to try and scream for help—the thought of these goons snapping Reid's neck in two was enough to keep him silent.

A sharp wind blew through the empty street, running through the thin sweater Reid wore and making the hairs on his back stand up. He thought of his old overcoat, still lying haphazardly over Chase's desk. _What I wouldn't give to have it on now,_ he thought. _But if someone finds it, it might start someone thinking…_

As the two were forced towards an ominous-looking van, the sound of something metallic scattering across the concrete rang in Reid's ears. Bright brown eyes scanned every inch of the visible street, hoping that someone was walking past. Straining his vision, he managed to make out a wind-strewn mop of sandy-blonde hair covering a small tower of white boxes nearly a block and a half away.

"Not one word," the dark-haired man hissed. "Either of you cries out, and the other learns to breathe through their neck, clear?"

Oliver's resentment-filled blue eyes and Reid's terrified brown ones told the man enough—his warning had been received. Slowly, the small party made its way towards the back of the van, and the two were shoved inside, Oliver gasping for breath as he fell sprawling on the steel floor.

"Move," the dark-haired man ordered, shoving Oliver's legs over to make room for Reid's long frame. "And make yourself comfortable, boys—we've got a long drive ahead of us."

---

Kyle Parker shivered as the icy wind blew through his old barn coat. The line at the Stackhouse had been insanely long that night, and it took Joseph longer to come up with his order than usual.

--A night of dice, Kyle?— the jovial man had asked.

--Yeah. The boss's away, and the guys are about to play,-- Kyle had said with a smile.

--At least it's a game of chance. The young doctor can't win all the time.—

--I'm beginning to think he knows how to load dice, though,-- Kyle had remarked. –He has way too good of luck with them, especially recently…--

--Well, perhaps you'll figure it out. Have fun, you hear?—

--Of course, Joe. Thanks.—

Though the walk from the restaurant to the office was only three blocks, the sharp wind made it seem a lot longer. Kyle's eyes danced around the empty street, looking in at the storefronts and picture windows that were mirrors to the street ahead of them.

_Nothing unusual,_ the investigative tech thought. _Chase always worries when she goes out of town…_

The sudden gust of bitter air that overtook his face snapped Kyle from his thought. Looking around him, he saw a dark van turning a sharp corner only a block away, the sides tilting a little as the vehicle tried to keep its balance.

_What's his hurry?_ Kyle thought. _Not like there's a fire sale or something…_

Coming up on the corner the van had turned, however, a sickening feeling started to churn inside his stomach. The front door to the first floor was wide open, caught in a death grip by the icy gusts that were growing stronger.

_Oliver knows enough to keep the door shut,_ Kyle reasoned. _Can't have the world coming in and taking a look at our files…Chase's already pissed I've deliberately fried three sets of computers this year…_

Kyle's pace quickened as he felt a sudden need to get upstairs. He raced into the elevator, which was on the first floor already—a curious position to leave an elevator when the building's only inhabitants were on the second floor. _Why would they send the elevator down?_ he wondered. _Doesn't make any sense…_

As soon as the elevator climbed back up to the second floor office, Kyle dropped the order of food onto a nearby table. The room was completely empty, save for two things—Oliver's leather jacket and Reid's patched overcoat.

_It's five below outside,_ the tech reasoned. _No way they left without their coats on their own accord…_

The feeling that something seriously wrong had occurred was too much to shake. Kyle sat down to his computer and grabbed a digital camera, making sure to document every oddity he found in the room. There was something not right about this, he was sure of it.


	3. Night Moves

**Usual disclaimers. NCIS's Abby makes a cameo appearance, and she'll pop in from time to time this story, as well as one of her colleagues.** **(She's not mine either.)

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After two hours, Kyle had finished documenting the office and the first floor entrance. What he'd found was enough to raise his own suspicions, but he sincerely wondered about anyone else's.

The front door had miniscule scrapings around the latch; _too small for a credit card but possibly something along the line, _Kyle reasoned. There weren't any footprints he could find, and as far as fingerprints went he didn't have anything to raise them. Usually Kyle kept a jar of ground chalk for the purpose, but he'd broken the jar in an early-morning accident some months back and hadn't gotten around to replacing it.

Upstairs, there were a couple of chairs askew—the ones in front of Oliver's desk—but that wasn't entirely out of the ordinary. Oliver wasn't the neatest person in the office to begin with. Kyle had felt the floor vibrating underneath his feet, and he crossed to the stereo Oliver kept along the wall and placed a hand on it. The small box was nearly jumping off its ledge with the volume it had been placed at. Even Kyle, whose hearing was one decibel away from complete deafness, could make out the louder bass points of whatever song was playing.

_Oliver doesn't play the music that loud,_ he thought. _Sure, once in a while, but not normally…_

The only thing that truly told the investigative tech that something wasn't right was what had been left in the room—Oliver and Reid's coats and Oliver's cell phone, which he never left a room without. Kyle meticulously took a picture of the items strewn over the office and made a note.

_I can't take this to the cops,_ Kyle realized suddenly. _For one, the sheriff hates us; for another, even our friends in the crime labs would tell us there's not enough evidence to prove anything other than that they're not here in the room. Still, leaving their coats on a night like this? Neither of them is that stupid…_

Looking at the room, Kyle realized that the only way to make any kind of case was to print the room, and he was out of chalk. Picking up his coat, he grabbed his phone and set it to send an email.

----

A computer beeped in the caverns of the forensics lab at the Navy Yard, all but unnoticed by the lone tech who made it her second home.

"Now who would be sending me a message at this hour?" she thought aloud. "There's no cases pending, and everyone—well, _almost _everyone—is out, like _I_ should be…"

Clicking on the screen, she read the message:

_Hey,_

_Could you have a look at these? There's something not right around here, and I'm sure I'm missing something. ASAP, OK?_

_Kyle Parker_

The woman stared at the screen, bright eyes furrowing in confusion. "I know that name, but from where…? A few seconds later, she had it. "Of course! That thing about the lance corporal…"

_Kyle:_

_I'll have a look. Did you dust?_

_Abby_

A second later, another message popped up:

_Chalk jar broke, haven't replaced it. Could use assistance._

Pulling her coat on, Abby raced out of her lab, a full three jars of fingerprint dusting powder in hand.

----

Oliver's head banged into the steel floor of the van for what seemed like the millionth time. Earlier on he'd tried to say something, but for his effort he earned Reid a few strikes to the head and legs.

_For better or worse, we're just going to have to take what comes,_ he reasoned. There was no way of getting an answer out of these people as to what they wanted with him—it was as though the reason for his and Reid's kidnap was either a closely guarded secret or something Oliver should know already.

Next to Oliver, Reid closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. Earlier he taken the abuse caused by Oliver's queries, and the agent realized that these people worked on balance scale when it came to punishment—nothing would happen to the 'offender,' but the innocent person would pay for it. _Good way to keep people afraid and in check,_ he reasoned.

In the office, the man who was leading this crew—whether he was the man in charge or not remained to be seen—had mistaken him for being hard-of-hearing, and Reid decided to use this to his advantage for as long as he could. There was a possibility that their captors might say something in front of him with Oliver out of earshot, believing that the secret would be kept.

_Hopefully they stop somewhere soon to give us some air, _Reid thought. _It feels like forever since we were shoved in this thing, and he said it was a 'long trip'…_

_----_

As the minutes dragged into hours, the only sounds either Oliver or Reid could hear was the banging of rubber tires onto concrete seams and the faint sounds of what sounded like Latin-based music near the front. Once in a while Oliver could hear the low hum of one of the guards watching over them, keeping time with the music, while beside him Reid could make out a foot tapping each beat of the song's rhythm. Neither one dared to say anything to one another for fear of what 'punishment' might befall the other next.

Unable to keep his bruised nose pressed into the jostling floor of the van, Oliver carefully turned his head to the side, making sure to keep his eyes pointed downward. The change in scenery was no bargain—rough, patched leather shoes instead of rust spots and bits of dirt—but Oliver's nose wasn't hurting anymore, and that in itself was a plus. Daring to look upward a little further, Oliver slowly took note of the dark slacks the guards near him wore, as well as the loud, brightly colored vests over white shirts. He managed to get a look at one of the shorter men, and saw that the man was wearing a wide-brimmed brown hat that tipped over his eyebrows.

_Thinks he's a cowboy, does he?_ Oliver groused silently. He stopped to think about what the ringleader had said in the office earlier_--"After all that time your boss spent trying to put me out of business…"_

_I've never seen these people before, _the investigator realized. _We haven't had any long-term jobs, at least none I know about, so…who are they, and what 'business' was Chase trying to shut down of theirs? If it was Chase at all?_

The thought of this being a case of retribution on Josh began to frighten him, and Oliver wasn't one who scared easily. Considering the secrets the older man kept and the nature of his work in counterterrorism, there were some ends Oliver had always preferred not to know about in his work there. There was the distinct possibility that this could be connected to a case Reid and his team had been working on, but Oliver remembered that the agent had told him earlier in the week that there had been no new cases for them as of late. In any case, the men seemed not to know anything about Reid at all, except that he knew Oliver somehow.

_Please, dear God, don't let this be about Josh…_ he repeated silently, over and over again. The mantra kept him from paying attention to his surroundings, and soon the van had come to a stop.


	4. Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

**Usual disclaimers. Abby and McGee aren't mine either.  


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"About time," Reid heard one of the men say.

"Cesar, you loco? Not even halfway."

"Not that—I'm starving."

"Unless you like eatin' dirt and rocks, there's nothing here," the dark-haired ringleader called back—Reid recognized the sound of his voice. "You fellows need to take a walk, now's the time."

"Perfect," one of the other guards said as he tripped over Oliver and jumped over Reid's own frame. The man's foot barely missed stepping on Reid's head by mere fractions of a centimeter. "Can't tell you how long…"

"Well, get to it. And take Oliver here with you."

"What for? Not like they won't have to learn…"

Rapid fire conversation in a language Reid couldn't understand rang through the bowels of the mobile metal prison he lay in. He instead focused on the tones of voice being used, and whatever was being discussed, it seemed of the utmost importance.

"Pah!" the guard spat. Reaching over Reid, the man grabbed hold of Oliver's arm and yanked so hard the agent heard a yelp of pain escape Oliver's lips. "Come on," the guard barked. "Haven't got all day."

"Just…give me a second!" Oliver pleaded, his own words coming out in short bursts. The force of the guard's tug on his arm has sent him sliding right into Reid's side, and the agent was trying hard not to make a sound as the man continued to pull Oliver into his midsection. Oliver's legs, which had remained unbound, flailed wildly in an attempt to pull himself up over his friend's prone form and gain footing on the rusted metal floor.

"First thing to learn, boy—you come when you're called," the guard hissed as he continued yanking on Oliver. "Otherwise you might make someone angry."

"Feisty, isn't he?" another guard said, his voice thickly laced with some strange accent Reid couldn't make out. "Come on, we've got to take care of you first…"

Reid held his breath as he listened intently at his surroundings. He could barely make out the sound of footsteps crunching over something. _Gravel, maybe? Or sand? Or rough dirt? _he wondered. The agent took slow, shallow breaths—a trick he'd learned during countless near-heart attacks while driving with Morgan—and continued to focus. Above him, the two guards that had remained began to talk.

"You really think these two will fit in, eh?" one of the men said in a slightly high-pitched voice.

"Eh. I know the boss wants to keep that Oliver—something to do with his lady boss—but this one might make a decent addition." A foot prodded Reid's midsection as he continued to lie facedown on the floor of the van. "Kind of pretty, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but what good's merchandise that doesn't work?" the higher-pitched voice asked. Reid thought he sounded younger than his counterpart. "I mean, can't take orders, hard to give direction to if he can't hear…"

"That's true. I dunno. Maybe someone will like him nonetheless." Thick fingers took hold of Reid's side and turned him over, forcing the agent to look up at his captors. He struggled to keep his face as blank as possible, allowing only the faintest hints of fear and confusion to creep onto his features.

"Inspecting the merchandise?" a voice asked, calling from the back door of the van.

"Hey, boss," the younger man said. "Just looking this one over."

The ringleader of the little group stood over Reid, his eyes taking in every inch. Reid felt as though he were being sized and measured for something he didn't want to know about just yet; as though the dark-haired man was taking some sick sort of pleasure in drinking in the agent's fear.

"Exquisite," Reid heard him say finally. "Aside from the little problem with his hearing, he should fetch a nice sum." Dark brown eyes drew closer to his face, locking with the warm brown eyes Reid possessed. "I may even decide to keep this one myself."

The thought of what that statement might mean made an involuntary shiver crawl up Reid's spine. He silently thanked God that the temperatures were near-frigid outside.

"Curtis, grab me that cover over there," the dark-haired man said, snapping his fingers. A moment later, a scratchy blanket fell overtop of Reid, tickling his nose and causing his face to itch.

_What sort of business was this guy in?_ the agent wondered frantically. _Please, God, tell me it's not…_

Soon the blanket was pulled away, and the sound of footsteps rang against the metal flooring of the van. Reid felt Oliver's feet trying not to step on him, and watched as his friend was shoved unceremoniously down onto the hard surface, drawing a cry of pain and a murderous glare from Oliver to his captors.

"Get back on the floor, _esclavo_," the returning guard snapped. "Learn your place, and it'll be easier for you."

The size of Oliver's wide eyes told Reid that something the man had said clearly put the investigator on edge.

"Come," the younger guard said, pulling Reid to his feet. "Time now to take care of you." Reid noticed that unlike Oliver, the guards were being a little gentler with him, as though he was something to protect—unless, of course, Oliver 'misbehaved.'

Swallowing hard, Reid struggled to find his footing. He allowed himself to be led outside and into the charcoal blackness of the cold night.

----

Kyle paced the floor of his office, his hands flying a mile a minute. He was mentally berating himself for not getting a closer look at the van that had sped away from the corner—Oliver and Reid were inside of it, of that he was convinced.

_Nothing to show as evidence--no license, no description other than 'dark van' and 'bad tires', _he steamed at himself. _That description only fits about…what? Several hundred thousand vans that are crappy?!_

The tech was so incensed and upset that he didn't notice the light flashing over the elevator door. It took a few minutes to see the flashing blue light blinking incessantly at him, demanding he answer the door downstairs. Sighing, he sent the rickety lift downward and crossed the vacant floor to the door, where two shadows waited somewhat impatiently for him.

--Abby, I'm glad you're here,-- he said, his bare fingers waving at her gloved ones. –You got the photos, yeah?—

The raven-haired forensics tech nodded vigorously. –Got 'em. I brought you some powder…-- she replied, nodding obviously towards the slightly roundish man standing next to her, --and I brought a real live field agent to help.—

--Hello. Kyle Parker,-- he said, using his hands. Kyle didn't trust his voice at the moment.

"What'd he say?" he saw the man say, looking just as confused as a newborn deer on its birthday.

--"He told you his name, McGee,"—Abby clarified, a slightly perturbed look crossing her face. –"This is NCIS Special Agent Tim McGee. He's a friend."—

--Thanks. I feel like an idiot, having to call and all.—

--Should've taken that class I gave a while back,--Abby said, starting towards the elevator. –Offices are upstairs, yeah?—

--Yeah. Second floor.-- Kyle started as well, so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he never noticed Abby's friend still standing by the door.

--"McGee, do you need an engraved invitation?!"-- Abby called over the worried man, sending one of her patented _stares_ at him.

"Abbs, I'm still…why are we here? Is this a Navy case?"

--"No, McGee, this is us helping out a friend. You do remember what that's like, right?"--

"I just…you called me at home, on my night off…had to ask." McGee noticed Abby translating everything into sign language, so as not to leave the sandy-haired man out of the conversation.

--"Well, it's important. Now, up."—

Heaving a sigh, McGee picked up his kit and followed the techs into the elevator, trying to keep track of the silent conversation Abby was trying to have with this strange investigator that seemed almost familiar…


	5. Don't Stand So Close to Me

**Usual disclaimers.

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**

The little round man—_McGee,_ Kyle remembered his name was—finally stood up and drew his arm over his forehead, wiping something off of it. "There's prints everywhere," he said, speaking slowly so that Abby could translate. "You have some we can use for elimination?"

Kyle thought on that a minute. –Oliver should have his on file, from when he worked for the FBI, and I know Reid does.—

"May I?" McGee asked, pointing towards Kyle's monitor on his desk. The tech nodded, and he watched as the man sat down and tapped a few things into the keyboard.

--I should have called Garcia, too,-- Kyle said as Abby looked on, absently collecting the evidence Kyle had managed to procure as well as the print evidence and Oliver and Reid's coats. –My head's not on straight tonight…--

--What about your boss?—Abby asked. –I mean, ours hates it when we keep him out of the loop.—

--She's in Miami right now, on business. Believe me, that job's going to be tough as it is. I don't want to call her if this is just something small, like I'm overreacting to them taking a quick trip for something or Reid got a call and brought Oliver with him for work.—

The two techs looked at each other as if they wanted to believe that last part. However, one glaring fact remained—the discarded coats and the cell phones that were carelessly left behind.

--So, who's Garcia?—Abby asked, calling something out to McGee that Kyle couldn't make out.

--One of the best computer hackers and analysts I've ever met--even better than me. She works with Reid over at the FBI. Maybe if I call her, she can get us those prints…--

Just then McGee stood up and waved two pieces of paper, obviously trying to catch Kyle's attention. The tech walked over and saw that the papers contained both Oliver's and Reid's prints, and there was a puzzled look on McGee's face.

"Why didn't you just call the FBI?" he asked. "Their technicians are pretty good, you know."

--We know too many people there. If this is nothing, I don't want them to worry. Dr. Reid has a penchant for getting himself into certain 'situations' from time to time, and Oliver's really no better.—

"Then why not call the local LEO's? I'm sure they…"

Kyle let out a short bark. –That'll be the day. The sheriff in this town hates us.—

--"You personally, or…"—Abby asked, now looking confused.

--Us in this office, and he's not too fond of the deaf either. Sheriff's an appointed position in this county, and that asshole knows what wheels to grease. In all honesty, he's about as inept as a preschooler teaching quantum nuclear physics.—

McGee and Abby both rolled their eyes in unison. "Been there," McGee said.

--Now you see why I called you, Abby,-- Kyle finished. –If anyone can figure this out, it's you. We're just not equipped to handle it on our end.—

--"Can do. I'll have Major Mass Spec working overtime tonight,"—the woman promised. –"And if you do get in touch with this Garcia, have her get in touch with me. Though, we could just have McGee…"—

--He knows computers?—

--"Call him the _second_ best computer hacker and analyst on the planet, as well as a field agent."—

--"He's really that good?"—

McGee smiled a small, embarrassed smile while Abby signed, --You should hear what they call him in Norfolk.—

Even Kyle smiled. –Please hurry,-- he said. –If I have to call my boss, I'd like to do it sooner rather than later…--

"On it," McGee said.

--Come with us,-- Abby told him. –You can lock the place up, right?—

--But…--

A pale white hand grabbed Kyle's, pulling him from the spot where he stood. –"No 'buts.' Come on."—

----

The night air still held its frigid chill as Reid was led around to the side of the rickety van. A cold poke to the small of his back with something metallic—_probably the muzzle of a gun,_ he thought—edged him further from the doors and out of eyesight of Oliver's predicament. Ahead of him, he could see the younger guard 'taking a walk,' as the practice was apparently called among these people. The thought of having to relieve himself in front of these people made him shudder slightly, and once again he was grateful for the frost in the air that could explain the reaction away.

Once the young man had finished, he walked back to where Reid was standing mute. "Come on," he said, as though his words were literally falling on deaf ears. "Let me see…" Long fingers reached for the button on the agent's slacks, and Reid tried to take a step back from the man's hands. The motion earned him a sharp slap in the head by the man behind him holding the gun.

"You move when you're told, _esclavo,_" a gruff voice said, using the strange word that had put Oliver on edge earlier. Reid wished he'd paid more attention when Elle had tried to teach him some basic Spanish all those years ago, and was regretting his decision to not take up Emily or Josh on their offers of study in other languages.

"He can't hear, _estupido,_" the younger man said. Taking his left hand, he held firmly onto Reid's leg, anchoring the agent where he stood, and used his right to work the fasteners on the slacks.

_I can do this myself, if only you'd let me! _Reid wanted to scream, but even one word out of him and his fragile cover was blown. There was more to this than anyone was letting on, and at the moment things looked rather dire for both the young doctor and his friend. He felt the cold air brush against the metal restraints that rendered his hands useless, and settled for trying to struggle with those a bit. The motion only earned him another slap in the head.

"How that _chica_ deals with these kinds of people all the time, it's beyond me," the older guard said. "Me, I say they're useless. Darius would be right to dispatch this one and focus on that Oliver." The man pronounced the name _Dah-ree-us._

"I dunno, Curtis," the younger one said, now reaching the tips of his fingers into the elastic of Reid's undergarments. The agent shuddered slightly in embarrassment and disgust as these fingers pulled away the front of the cloth, leaving him exposed for all to see. "I'm kind of hoping he doesn't sell."

"You want to lose money on this? After all that woman and her _amigos_ did to shut us down?" Curtis asked, incredulous. "Do you know how much we lost on that, Raul?"

"A lot. It's just…he's so beautiful. And I don't care that he can't hear. Some things you can teach through other means."

"I know you. You're too gentle. You'd probably let him escape."

Reid bristled a little as fiery brown eyes hardened their gaze at the older man. "No _esclavo_ ever escaped the hold on my account," he snapped, the anger boiling over in Raul's features. "You know that."

"Fine. You want him, come up with the money. Or take your case to Darius. Let's just get this done. Still a long ways to go, then we've got to get them ready for transport."

The second Reid felt cold fingers stroking a certain part of himself he kept private he felt as though he wanted to die. _Was this what Oliver endured earlier?_ he wondered. _Or is this just for me? _Soon the agent felt a release of pressure that had built up over the course of this horrible, unbidden journey, and he mentally berated himself for indulging in that third espresso before making the drive to the Campbell Trio's offices. Once the pressure dissipated, the younger man—_Raul,_ Reid recalled—took his time 'cleaning' him up and fastening the buttons on Reid's slacks.

"There, _querido_," he heard Raul say in that high, soft, patient tone of his. "Finished. Let's get you back inside, before you take sick."

Reid hung his head in shame and misery as he was led back into the bowels of the waiting van, laid carefully on the floor and then covered with the scratchy blanket. He was grateful for the covering, as he did not dare show the tears crawling down his face and mingling with the flakes of rust and pebbles of dry mud littering the steel floor.


	6. Little Lies

**Usual disclaimers. Hope you're still with me...

* * *

**

--Can't this thing go any faster?!—Kyle signed impatiently. He could see dawn breaking through the small window in Abby's lab, and the three were still waiting on results from things like AFIS as well as the mass spectrometer.

--Listen, Rome wasn't built in a day, Parker,-- Abby said pointedly as she herself heaved a sigh and checked her clock. It was nearly eight o'clock, and soon she'd have to explain why there was someone in her lab…unless…

"McGee?" Abby said. "You know if there's any cases pending today?"

"None that I know of, why?" the round man replied. "I know we're not working on anything, but that could change."

"Damn the fickle nature of our work!"

"What's the matter?"

"Well, when you-know-who comes in later, we're going to have to explain what we're working on and why," Abby said. "Given his recent brush with the feds…"

"Ah," McGee said, finally catching on. "And the last time you locked your doors, everyone knew something was wrong."

"I mean, look at him," Abby pointed out, extending a hand towards Kyle, who was hunched over in Abby's desk chair with his head in his hands. "Could you really toss him out now?"

McGee's face twisted a little. "I know you couldn't."

"Exactly. We're in this now, and…" Just then the mass spectrometer went off. "Finally!" she cried, tapping Kyle on the shoulder and handing him a printout of the results.

--I can't read this,-- he signed, looking sheepish. –Unless it was a home remedy, or about a computer, I wasn't very good at science.—

--"Says here that there was sea salt latched onto those white fibers you found in the chair,"— Abby said.

--Sea salt? Means one of two things: either these people spend a lot of time around the seaside or they like to cook.—

--"You cook with sea salt?"—

"Yeah. Sea salt's supposed to give better flavor than regular table salt," McGee replied before Kyle could pick up his hands.

--Anything on the prints?—

"Oliver's and Dr. Reid's we eliminated, but there were prints on that chair and on the door that were no match in the system. I'm expanding the search, but…" McGee gave a slight grimace. "We have to wait."

Kyle sighed, and flopped down back into Abby's desk chair. –Was there something we missed in the photos?—

McGee brought up the shots taken by both Kyle and by McGee when he arrived on the scene. He was thankful that Kyle remembered protocol and, other than setting a stack of white food boxes in a corner, he had left the office virtually untouched. The three had tucked most of the food away, realizing it would be a shame to waste it, so Abby's office section was also littered with wax paper and white boxes and crumbs. "Doesn't seem to be a sign of a break-in, other than the scrapings we found on the door frame, and if Lawrence and Dr. Reid were forced out, they used some method of making them go under their own power."

--A gun to the head is a pretty good motivator,-- Kyle remarked. –Whoever planned this, they were careful.—

"I did get photos of the area where you saw the van, and there was one tire mark," McGee added.

--"Running that through the national database now,"—Abby reported. –"But I'm not sure it'll be much help."—

--Why not?—

--"Because I've seen that tread pattern before. It's pretty standard, fits most makes of large vehicle."—

--Another dead end,-- Kyle signed. –I wish I'd gotten a better look at it…--

Just then Kyle saw Abby and McGee jump and little in surprise. –What is it?—

--"There's a phone going off,"—Abby said. –"The red one."—

"Oh oh," the impaired man said, his voice thick and scratchy.

"Oh oh?"

--That's Dr. Reid's phone. I bet he's got a case now and he's got to fly out,-- Kyle explained. –Does it say who's calling?—

McGee held up the phone with gloved hands. "Morgan?" he said.

"Oh, great." Neither Abby nor McGee could make out what he said, but assumed it wasn't something nice.

"Well, what now?" McGee said. "I mean, we can't let it ring…"

--Well, don't tell them they're missing either! That'll open a whole new can of worms!—

--"So you want us to lie?"—Abby said, her face showing signs of affront.

--And convincingly. These people he works with, they'll know.—

"How are they going to know?"

Kyle started to sign, then grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note, which he thrust into McGee's face.

_He's a profiler. Works with a whole group of them at the BAU in Quantico. They'll know—it's scary._

"Oh, great," McGee said. "First I'm working a 'case' that isn't technically even ours to work, and now I've got to lie to the FBI. Any other laws you want me to break today?"

Kyle thought about that a minute. –Call Garcia,-- he said simply, scribbling down the number. –She'll think of something to tell them, and she can help us.—

Abby took the number from Kyle gingerly, as though it were laced with dynamite. "Here goes," she said, punching in the number into her computer and tuning her webcam.

----

The smell of salt air overpowered Oliver's nostrils. He coughed a little, gagging on the mere scent of the briny substance.

"Reid, you okay?" he whispered very softly. The guards as well as the ringleader had filed out of the van a few moments before, leaving the two captives locked in the back of the van.

"Define 'okay,'" Reid said, keeping his own voice extremely soft.

"You too, huh?"

The shaking of long brown locks told Oliver enough. "I don't like what I'm hearing," his friend continued. "That word they use to describe us—what does that mean?"

Oliver bit his lip. He knew very well what it meant, but hesitated on telling Reid the truth. "Prisoner," he said. "It's a Spanish term for prisoner."

Reid's head turned slightly, his eyes furrowed a little. "Really? Somehow I don't think so."

"Nothing gets by you, does it?"

"Oliver, what does it…"

"Slave, Reid. It means 'slave.' These people are running a trafficking ring, if my guess is right."

"Oh, God…"

"There's more."

"What?!"

"It sounds like these particular 'dealers' cater to all kinds. Whatever we do, we can't let them split us up."

"Because if they do, we might not get out of this," Reid said in realization. "I know the odds of getting out of a trafficking ring when you're the 'merchandise.'" Another shiver thrilled up the agent's back, causing him to twitch involuntarily into Oliver's side.

"What's wrong?"

Reid fell silent. He had a feeling he knew what would happen to him once he was let out of this van, and he didn't particularly want to share.

"Reid, come on. Tell me. What's wrong?"

The agent shook his head.

"Reid," Oliver hissed. "Tell me before…" The sentence was cut off by the sound of footsteps padding over concrete. Moments later, Oliver heard the door of the van open and felt a weight climb inside. The investigator tried to lay as still as possible, to avoid giving the 'intruder' a reason to hurt either one of them.

"There, _querido_," a slightly high-pitched voice said soothingly, and Oliver dared a look at his friend. He could make out dark brown eyes looking over Reid's form as though it were the lost treasure of Atlantis. "You see? Here we are, and in one piece." Reid shivered again, causing Oliver to dare another peek. The young man sitting next to Reid was gently running one of his long-fingered hands up and down Reid's back, as though he were gently massaging a lover's bare skin. "Soon there'll be processing, but then I think I know just where you'll end up." Oliver himself winced at the sound of the man's voice, which sounded full of a despicable love and almost awe for the profiler next to him. "And your friend? He'll be close by. _Bueno_ for me, so I can learn to talk to you."

The thought of being 'close by' to Reid gave Oliver hope, but the implications of the man's statement made his mind spin. _Just what are they planning to do with me? _he wondered feverishly. Soon more footsteps trodded over the concrete outside, and the back doors of the van were wrenched open.

"Raul!" a gruff voice barked. "You're supposed to be moving them for processing, not playing with them! Get them out here!"

"Come on, _querido_," the younger man—Raul, Oliver realized—said gently to Reid as he took his time picking the bound prisoner up from the van floor. There was a little bit of a scuffle and a sharp cry from Reid as he had tried to resist being moved from his position on the floor.

"Curtis! You don't have to hurt him!" Raul shouted, adding a few curse in Spanish for good measure.

"As long as they're in salable condition, I don't really care what happens to 'em," Curtis said simply, reaching in and grabbing Oliver by the leg. The man pulled so hard it nearly tore the limb out of its socket, and Oliver cried out in severe pain.

"Please, don't," the investigator said, trying to right himself as he was being yanked out of the van. "Just give me a chance and I'll…"

The pull on Oliver was even harsher than the first. "Don't learn well, do you, _esclavo_?" the older guard spat. "You talk when _we_ say you talk. You want your friend here to hurt even more?"

"N-no," Oliver said softly, shaking his head wildly. Struggling to regain his balance, he was pulled out of the van and landed in a heap on the cold concrete. The air outside was significantly warmer than it had been earlier, and Oliver wondered just how far they'd been taken from the office in Virginia.

"Get up," the irate guard snapped.

Oliver had fallen on his back, squashing his bound hands underneath him and unable to right himself. He tried to roll to one side or the other in an attempt to push himself up with his shoulders, but the placement of his hands acted as a pedestal that was firmly supporting his weight.

"I said, get up!" the guard shouted, wrenching Oliver's left shoulder and pulling the young man to his feet. "Now, _move_!" he added, shoving Olive forward towards what looked like an old dilapidated white barn.


	7. Enjoy the Silence

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

The inside of the barn smelled of old garlic and mildew. Reid noticed the stark white walls of the place, which had been kept up despite the building's exterior. A long silver pole stood gleaming near the center of the large open floor while several partitioned areas near the left end seemed to leer in wait.

A sharp poke in the back startled the agent, causing his head to snap upward slightly. "Go on, move," the man called Curtis growled. "Haven't got all day…"

"Wh-where are we going?" Reid heard Oliver ask, in a small voice. Surprisingly, there was no repercussion to the question being asked.

"Downstairs," Curtis said simply. "And good riddance. Let Marco have at you—I've seen enough."

The two captives were forced down a small trapdoor near the back of the building, causing them to fall several feet to the dirt floor below. Reid, falling first, had barely enough time to regain his footing before Oliver came tumbling down on top of him. It took every ounce of willpower the agent possessed not to cry out—Oliver's fall had been cushioned by Reid's foot, and he was certain that something had been badly bruised if not broken in it. Before either man could manage to pick themselves up off the ground, the trapdoor slammed shut, leaving them in near-darkness.

"What now?" Reid asked softly, praying that none of the guards were near enough to hear him.

"Search me," Oliver said. "I'm still trying to put it all together. You lot usually have all the answers…"

Reid started to respond, but suddenly a bright fluorescent light turned on, nearly blinding them.

"Well, well," a voice said. "Looks like Darius found himself his prizes after all. I'll be damned."

Reid's eyes were searching for the source of the voice, and was startled when something pulled on his bound wrists. "Hmm," the voice said, as though its owner were giving him the once-over. "Little skinny, but he might fill out. Nice size." Strong hands ran themselves over Reid's arms, his torso, his legs and his posterior. "Thin build. Probably not a fighter."

_Says you,_ Reid thought. _How would you know, anyway?_

Deft fingers worked their way up Reid's neck, stroking the soft parts. "Hmm," the voice said as the fingers moved around the agent's ears, his cheeks, his chin, and his brow. "Darius was right—these features _are_ exquisite. Might fetch a nice price on those alone."

_Morgan always said there was a downside to having a 'pretty face,' _Reid thought darkly. The thought of his colleague made his heart sink a little, and made him more determined to find a way out of this nightmare. When the fingers that had 'inspected' Reid began running themselves across his lips, the agent began to sputter in an attempt to keep the prying digits away from them. He cried out when the action earned him a kidney punch, and nearly fell over in pain.

"Now, are you going to cooperate?" the voice growled.

"He can't hear," Oliver said quickly. Reid tried to make out where his friend was standing, as the brilliant lights were making it hard to see even a foot in front of him.

"Well, that's a problem. Special market for impairments, but it'll be hard to take direction."

"The little one upstairs, he made some noise about wanting that one," another voice said. Reid assumed that that man was holding Oliver still, as it was not like the investigator to stand idly by while someone close to him was being abused or molested in any way. "Even said he'd take him as payment for the job."

"Can't see the boss allowing that," the 'inspector' said. "How would he pay the rest of us?"

"Apparently the little _hada_ is willing to give up payment on a couple of future shipments," his companion replied. "He must really like this one…"

"To give up that kind of green? I'll say," the 'inspector' seconded. "Though, overall he would fetch a pretty price at market. It's just the impairment that ruins it."

Reid silently vowed to not speak one word, not if he could help it. When he refused the 'inspector' entry into his mouth again, he earned another sharp blow to the midsection, this one knocking the wind out of him.

"Leave him alone!" Oliver cried. The sound of feet scuffling on the dirt floor assaulted Reid's ears, and soon he could hear Oliver screaming in pain and then silence.

"Try that again, _esclavo_," the 'inspector's' companion asserted, almost daring Oliver to defy him. "It'll go worse for you, and double for your friend here."

"You kill us, you get nothing," Oliver replied weakly. "Nothing for your trouble."

Reid tried to keep his emotions in check as he heard a savage kick being dealt in the direction of Oliver's voice. A tear tried desperately to trickle out of the corner of his eye, and he took deep breaths to keep it from falling.

"Shut the hell up," the man said flatly.

"Or what?"

The man shouted something to Reid's 'inspector,' who fastened the agent to something solid that he couldn't make out in the blinding light. Soon he could hear a series of heartfelt protests coming from Oliver's direction, and then nothing but muffled cries.

"Now, where were we?" the 'inspector' said, pressing his fingertip onto Reid's lips. "Oh, yes…"

----

The morning started out like any other for Garcia. A quick trip to the coffee shop had scored her not only her favorite beverage of choice, but a free box of scones on the hours.

"Figured after everything, you could have switched shops," the owner said as he wrapped them in a white pastry box. "I was so upset after I'd heard what happened…"

"Guillermo, it could have happened anywhere," Garcia said honestly. "My line of work, I've learned that much."

"You're a better person than I would be," the man said, handing over the scones. "Now, enjoy."

_Six scones, _she mused as she walked across the tenth floor and headed towards her office. _Maybe I can convince Reid and Emily to take a couple off my hands…Lord knows they'll be tempting me all day if I just leave them in the box…_

Setting the small box on top of her file cabinet, Garcia sat down in her chair and fired up her beloved computers. Within minutes she was diving into a small file that Emily had asked her to look in on the night before.

"Okay, Em," the tech said to herself. "One strange and creepy file on a strange and creepy guy, coming right up…"

Not two seconds after she'd begun the search did a webcam stream pop up onto her monitors. "Who on earth…?" Garcia wondered, looking at the name of the sender. "Elf-Lord? I don't know…"

Then a quick IM popped up on her screen. _Garcia, it's Kyle,_ the message read. _Accept the webcam file…_

_Since when did Kyle change his screen name? _the bubbly blonde mused. Though hesitant, she clicked 'accept' on the transmission. Instantly her monitor showed what looked like some sort of fully-equipped laboratory, and three faces slowly swung into view—one of which she knew well. "What on earth is going on?" she asked. "Who are you?"

"Abby Scuito," the woman in her monitor replied, shaking her raven-colored pigtails. "This is Special Agent Tim McGee—we're with NCIS."

"Wait—the Navy cops?" Garcia asked.

"Yeah," the man—McGee—replied. "We're working on a case for a friend, Kyle Parker?"

"I know Kyle. Hey, can you ask him where Dr. Reid is? Apparently my teammates have been calling him for two hours and getting no answer…"

Both Abby and Agent McGee looked towards the floor, shifting uncomfortably. "Uh, about that…"

"Oh no. What happened, and how is the Navy involved?"

"Actually, we'd better let Kyle explain…" Abby said, pulling a familiar figure towards the camera. As Kyle signed, Abby translated: "Last night Dr. Reid and another friend, Oliver Lawrence, were supposed to meet him at his office to play dice. Kyle here went to get the munchies, and when he got back the other two were nowhere to be found."

"Okay, so they took off for a minute," Garcia reasoned. "What does this have to do with…?"

"Let him finish," Abby insisted. "He says that he thought they'd just stepped out, but they both left their coats and their cell phones in the office. He knows that Oliver left his Glock in the desk drawer, and that's not like him. Plus, Dr. Reid's car is still in the parking lot."

"Reid owns a car?" Garcia said, a little surprised.

"White Volvo, vintage," Agent McGee replied. "Registration's in his mother's name, apparently, but he pays the license tabs."

Garcia's head was spinning. "Okay, so they're missing."

"Well, not technically…" Abby said.

"Not _technically_?! How's that, gumdrop?"

"Because there was no report filed," Agent McGee explained. "Something to do with the local LEO's being a pain in the ass…"

"Well, neither Kyle nor his boss ever says anything good about the sheriff down there," Garcia seconded. "And from personal experience, he _is_ a pain in the ass."

"The bottom line is, Kyle collected what little evidence there was and then called in a favor from Abby," McGee finished. "So we're just 'helping out,' but then your people started calling…"

"And we can't give you what we don't have…" Abby added.

"Let me get this straight. One of our agents is missing, as well as a private investigator that has close connections to this office…"

"Apparently," McGee replied.

"And you want me to cover for you so you can find them."

"Basically, yeah," Abby said. "Kyle's a little freaked about your guys finding out, and don't get me started on telling his boss…"

Garcia heaved a huge sigh. "They're gonna find out eventually."

"Yeah, we heard. Profilers." Abby's pigtails shook and her white lab coat collar barely covered the spider web tattoo across her neck.

"And they'll want to help."

"I think that's what Kyle's afraid of," Abby admitted. "There's really no case yet, and we're still working the evidence here…"

"Got anything I can work with? Photos, prints, a name maybe?"

"We can send you the photos, prints are still running through the system, and if only we did have a name," McGee said, tapping on the keyboard in the lab. "You think you've got problems—our boss is due in any minute, and we've got to explain ourselves then…"

"Then let's find them before anyone's the wiser," Garcia said. "I'll call back in a few minutes, and we can work from there."

Kyle quickly signed something, his face looking like it had seen a war. "What about the calls?" Abby translated.

"The team's going to Utah as we speak," Garcia said. "I'll give them an excuse, tell them he'll catch up."

"Thanks," Abby said, and Kyle looked instantly relieved. "He says he doesn't want to worry anyone if he doesn't have to."

"Too late for that," Garcia said. "Garcia out."


	8. When the Lights Go Out

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

The sound of Reid's nonverbal protest was echoing through Oliver's ears. Though the lights were blinding, he could almost make out the 'inspector' sticking his fingers into the agent's mouth, trying to get a better 'look' at his teeth and tongue.

"I'll say it again," the 'inspector' said. "If it weren't for the impairment, I'd say we could make an excellent profit on him. Good physique, though a little thin, and seems more than intelligent."

"I didn't think we looked for that," Oliver's guard mused.

"Well, they've got to take direction," the 'inspector' pointed out. "You really want to buy damaged goods?" It made Oliver shudder to hear how these individuals were talking about other human beings—as though they were nothing more than cattle on an auction block. "Now, hook that troublemaker up here and I'll have a look at him while you put this one in the hold."

_The 'hold'? What's that?_ Oliver wondered as he heard Reid being dragged off. The sounds of protesting feet and limbs carried over the space, and the guard cursed at the agent more than once. Oliver heard Reid cough and grunt a little as several blows were dealt to him.

"Where are you taking him?!" Oliver shouted, trying desperately to be understood over the thick oily cloth that had been shoved between his teeth. The question came out only as a garbled mess of sounds and half-coherent words, but still Oliver called out to demand answers. A savage blow struck him in the head, and the investigator saw large white stars forming behind his eyes.

"It's a good thing the boss's decided to keep you, _esclavo,_" the 'inspector' said. "Otherwise I'd recommend you were sold off to the worst buyer in the place come auction day. Though don't think you'll fare much better on that account—the boss doesn't suffer disobedience lightly."

Bright blue eyes sparkled with fire as the 'inspector's' hands worked their way over his frame. "Little more to you than your friend, but still slight," he said appraisingly. "A bit smaller, but a decent height. The eyes are a plus—blue is always a popular selling point."

_Thanks,_ Oliver thought savagely.

The 'inspector' called out to his companion, speaking in a dialect of Spanish Oliver didn't understand. He tried to shy away from the footsteps coming towards him, but he was securely fastened to something metal and solid, and his hands were still bound behind him. Oliver desperately wished he could have the use of his hands, if only to defend himself from the 'inspector's' groping fingers.

"What are--" Oliver tried to eke out, despising the hateful gag lodged in his mouth, but something sharp pressed against the flesh of his neck, daring Oliver to 'misbehave.'

"My _amigo_ here, he likes his blades," the 'inspector' purred evilly as his fingers ran themselves over Oliver's brow. "You get any ideas, and he'll find a new sheath for this one, _comprende?_"

Oliver nodded his head, very slightly. The 'inspector's' invasive fingers sampled the investigator's ears, nose, chin, and the nape of his neck before placing themselves onto his lips. The man deftly removed Oliver's gag, letting it drop to the floor as the tip of his finger ran against Oliver's teeth.

"Open up," the 'inspector' demanded, and the pressure of the knife against Oliver's most vulnerable point increased. Trying to keep his terror in check, Oliver took deep, even breaths as he unwillingly allowed the persistent fingertips access to his tongue and soft palate.

"Very nice," the inspector said, almost breathily. "A fine specimen." As soon as the hateful digits exited his mouth, Oliver began to cough and sputter in an attempt to get taste off of his tongue. "Put him in the hold with his friend. Soon they'll have to get ready."

_Ready for what?_ Oliver wondered silently. He had to keep himself in check—it would do neither himself nor Reid any good should he end up an 'unfortunate casualty' of the situation. Oliver felt himself being released from the metal support, though his hands were still bound in Reid's handcuffs, and the 'inspector's' companion dragged him through a series of subterranean hallways, each one dim and dusty and difficult to see in.

"In here," the man said finally, as Oliver heard the sound of metal creaking on worn hinges. "Someone will be by in a few minutes to finish you up."

The thought did not make Oliver feel any better, and he nearly stumbled over his own feet as he was roughly shoved into the dark closet-like space. Heaving huge breaths in an attempt to steady himself, Oliver tried to pick himself up from the ground and get his bearings.

"Oliver? Is that you?" a familiar voice whispered, trying desperately to keep its owner's secret.

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, are you free?"

"No. The guy shoved me in here and told me to wait." Oliver noticed the wave of relief that had washed over his friend momentarily, one that was quickly replaced with confusion and fear. "I don't think I can take much more of this…"

"Hey, weren't you the guy who survived some religious nut near Atlanta a while back?" Oliver pointed out. "I've heard about that, a little bit."

Reid chuffed a little. His voice sounded lower than Oliver's, more of a positional aspect than an octave one. "Then, at least, I knew what was coming. He wanted to kill me, but he needed a 'justifiable reason,'" the agent replied. "These people…Oliver, I think we're going to wish we _were_ dead by the time this is through."

"I know. You ever have any cases involving trafficking?"

Silence loomed over the small space for a moment, and Oliver managed to find a wall and slide down to the floor leaning against it. "One," he heard Reid say from across the room. Oliver's ears were strained to their limit trying to hear him. "We found a cellar full of 'merchandise,' as they called it. They were girls—some of them not even fourteen."

"Jesus," Oliver said softly, hoping he could be heard.

"I'll never forget the look on this one girl's face," Reid continued. "I mean, they all were obviously traumatized and in shock, but this girl—she was probably fifteen if she was a day—she looked like a walking shell of a woman. She had this…this 'look' to her eyes, like they'd seen hell and wanted no more of it."

"What happened to her?"

"I don't know," Reid said softly, so softly Oliver could barely make it out.

"We had one once, in Baltimore," Oliver said, inching along the wall of their melanoid prison. "Eastern Europeans, mostly. You would be surprised what lies these people will spin to lure their victims to them."

"That's usually how it works," Reid whispered. "Very few operations are supplied through kidnappings."

"There was a little girl—she said she was fourteen but she couldn't really have been more than twelve—who looked so beaten and worked over she resembled little more than a rag doll. When we sprung the place she said that she'd been promised work in America as a singer."

"Could she sing?"

"I think so, but probably not nearly as well as she was led to believe." Oliver swallowed thickly. "When we found her, she was seven months pregnant."

"My God," he could barely hear his friend say. "What happened to her?"

"Josh got involved, made arrangements for her to stay here and have the baby," Oliver replied. "She…she didn't make it. The abuse and the pregnancy were too much for her."

"The baby?"

"Adopted out. Josh made sure it was to a good family, and he gave them a letter for the little boy explaining about his mother."

Silence loomed over the space for a time. Finally, Reid spoke: "The fact that these are Latin individuals running this 'operation' is unique."

"Yeah," Oliver replied, keeping his voice as low as possible. "Usually it's Russians, or Chinese. Quite a few 'organizations' don't bother with people--too much trouble for the return. Drugs are easier to manipulate, not as much hassle."

"So a Latin group who specializes in trafficking, one that's willing to kidnap rather than lure..."

"I think we were an exception rather than a rule, Reid," Oliver mulled. "This boss figure seems to want revenge on Chase, and we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or not," Reid countered. "Perhaps they wanted a scapegoat all along, instead of the 'real problem'."

"How do you figure?"

"In the office, it sounded to me like this person in charge wanted either you or Kyle to sell off or abuse for their personal pleasure," Reid explained. "In fact, they knew your name, and from how they acted I think they know I'm not Kyle. There was no mention of taking a girl at all. "

"Yeah, the name thing bothers me--I mean, I've never heard of these people, and the case they're talking about could easily be over three years old--since before I started working in Campbell. But I don't get the feeling that these people are exclusive to one sex or the other," Oliver replied. "Most just want girls--easier to manipulate, easier to control. These people seem to be experienced in taking men, too."

"I didn't think there was a market..."

"Reid, you people deal with some pretty sick individuals. You don't think there's a market?"

A small chuff from Reid's position in the inky space was answer enough. "And they talked about 'specialized' markets..."

"You'd be surprised what people missing a limb would go for," Oliver said. "There were a couple in Baltimore. Plus the blind make easy targets--able to be manipulated and kept with minimal trouble; just throw enough obstacles in the way. The longer these people think you're hard-of-hearing, the better off we'll be. They find out you hear fine…"

"And we'll have more to deal with than a beating," Reid finished.


	9. Do You Hear What I Hear?

**Usual disclaimers. Expect more dark and angsty stuff in this and following chapters.** **There may be special disclaimers later.

* * *

**

The silence was beginning to grate on Reid's nerves. He longed to hold a longer conversation with his friend, but every time he tried to speak the sounds of footsteps or agitated voices would carry from the dark hallway into the tiny prison cell where he sat. Oliver had managed to lift himself up off the ground and was pacing the room frantically, trying to find something.

"Aha," Reid heard his friend say. "Found it."

"What?" the agent choked out in a breathy whisper. He frantically tried to listen for anyone who might be passing by or trying to listen in. For a moment he thought the cell might be bugged, but judging on the sophistication of this operation he thought it might only be installed with video surveillance, not audio.

"The door. Give me a…" The sound of metal protesting and the futile _click_ of a lock remaining firm rang through the tiny space. "Damn it!"

Reid struggled to find his own bearings and inched over towards the door. Turning his back to the door, he let his bound hands work their way over the lock mechanism, which was built into the swinging barrier. There was no doorknob of any kind on the side where Reid and Oliver stood.

_They're smarter than we think,_ the profiler thought. His heart sank even lower at the notion of never being able to leave this horrible tribulation. Suddenly he heard footsteps drawing closer. Grabbing hold of Oliver's shirt, he pulled both of them away from the door and back onto the earthen floor just as the footsteps stopped in front of the barred opening. The jingle of keys clashing against each other rang merrily, and the door swing open with such force that it collided with the wall of the small bastille.

"Get up," a savage voice barked.

"Why?" Oliver ventured. Reid curled into a ball, knowing a blow would soon come his way for Oliver's remark. Instead strong hands grabbed the agent's collar and forced him to his feet, despite Reid's inability to firmly put his uncooperative lower appendages underneath him. The profiler wobbled like a cattail in a stiff wind, trying to stand.

"Hey! Where are you taking him?!" Oliver shouted, his voice still centered near the floor. The question received no answer as Reid was compelled to walk in front of his jailer and out of the room. As soon as the cell door swung shut, it locked immediately, and Reid could hear Oliver throwing himself against the solid barrier, screaming for acknowledgement.

Rough hands pushed the agent forward, not allowing for a moment of rest. Reid stumbled about in the dim corridors, desperate to find another passage or turn in the path that might lead him to freedom. _If I can get myself out of here, then at least I can try to get help for Oliver,_ he reasoned. _The problem is, they'll likely move him the second I escape…_

Soon the unwilling detainee found himself in front of a crude cinder-block stall. There was a hole set into the middle of the floor, and Reid noticed a small metal grate inside of it.

"Get in there," the sentinel ordered. Reid remained firmly rooted to the spot he had been placed. _If I'm going to pull this off, I have to make them believe I can't hear,_ he decided.

"Get in there, I said!" the guard bellowed, violently shoving Reid into the stall. The force of the shove sent Reid flying, and he saw stars as his head connected with the cinder-block floor. It took a second for him to regain his senses and attempt to stand up. The idea of being low to the ground didn't set well with the young doctor—he felt it a more vulnerable position and he was determined to keep as much of his dignity as he could in this place.

The vile warden haughtily yanked the man off of the floor and stood him next to the back wall of the diminutive stall. "Hold still," he warned. The next sound Reid heard was the _click_ of a knife blade being set in its handle.

_Oh, God, _he worried. _What now?_

The question was answered all too quickly as Reid felt the cold metal of the blade brush against his skin while the sharp edge sliced through the fibers of his thin sweater. Soon the warm sheath fell in shards to the floor, and the profiler bristled violently against the damp chill of the space.

The knife then lifted from his waist, where the last remnants of the sweater were severed into uselessness, and began biting into the thick fabric of his slacks. The metal blade caressed his legs and worked its way towards more sensitive regions, all the while staying focused on turning the cloth that covered the young agent into little more than patches for a crazy quilt. Soon the chill enveloped Reid's legs and backside, and he was silently grateful that his undergarments had not been hacked away.

"Hold still," the warden cautioned sternly, and soon the cold bite of steel pressed loosely against Reid's groin. The wisps of woven cotton threads fluttered to the rough, grainy floor, leaving the agent as exposed as an open roll of film.

"There," the guard said finally. "Now I can get you cleaned up." Reid watched as the guard stepped outside the stall for a moment, taking care not to leave sight of the small entrance. Something raked across the floor, and Reid's eyes widened considerably when he saw it was a high-pressure garden hose. Terrified, the agent began to draw in deeper and deeper breaths, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

_No, _he chanted silently in his mind. _No, don't do this…don't do this…no…_ Soon the chant began to form on Reid's lips, and he unconsciously uttered the words soundlessly as his mind raced. He turned his head quickly back and forth, desperate for a way to escape, but the only way out was right through the guard. _I can't do this…please…_

Just then a high pressure spray of ice-cold water hit him in the midsection, and Reid screamed in shock as the frigid substance was draped over his exposed frame, covering his skin in icy droplets that caused him to shiver and his teeth to quake violently. He tried to turn around, but the spray continued to hit his sides, his back, his ankles, even his face. The more he turned, the more the guard outside chuckled. "Can't take it, eh, _esclavo_?" he said, not bothering to stifle his amusement at the shivering, half-drowned, frightened mess of a man that barelh stood before him. "At least now you'll get a bath. Who knows what your buyer might do once they have you--"

The idea of being forced to exist in his own filth, never being able to clean himself, disgusted Reid to his core. He was by nature a rather neat person, if not a fastidious one. He started to open his mouth to say something and then remembered—_I'm not supposed to hear that._ Clenching his teeth, he tried to put on his best 'confused' face, all the while asking himself one simple question—_what would Kyle do? How would he react to all of this, not having any way of knowing what was being said or what might be coming?_

As soon as the malevolent warden was 'satisfied' as to Reid's 'cleanliness,' he dropped the now barely-leaking hose and grabbed the profiler by the shoulder, shoving him forward. "Move," he snapped. Reid slowly walked in front of the man, completely exposed, embarrassed and ashamed. He was led upward to a small white room—one of the partitioned cubicles the agent had noticed on the way in—and thrust inside. A thick Plexiglas door swung shut, and a clear, wide, solid plastic bar was slammed down in front of it, effectively locking him inside.

_No, don't, _Reid thought feverishly as he tried to curl himself into a ball in the far corner of the cubicle. The clear window allowed anyone passing by a full view of the room's contents, and though the lights were dimmed in what was probably supposed to be a calming or seductive manner, they were not dim enough for the mortified agent. _Where's Oliver? _he wondered._ Are they doing the same thing to him? And what's going to happen to us now?_

----

The day was not progressing fast enough for Kyle's liking. He'd taken Abby and McGee's warning to heart about being found by their boss—a Special Agent Gibbs—so he managed to lose himself in the bowels of the Navy Yard for awhile. Like his employer, Kyle kept a number of 'official' ID's on his person, and it so happened he had one that would give him access to quite a bit of the building he currently occupied—a 'gift' from a contact the investigators had during a particularly nasty case involving a Marine lance corporal, several hundred thousand dollars in counterfeit money and a dead sailor's wife. He found himself wandering the basement of the giant building at the moment, and was curious to see a well-lit hospital-like room of sorts at one end.

_I knew they had some sort of a mortuary room here, but this?_ Kyle mused to himself, daring to step inside for a closer look. The clean, white space was almost immaculate, and Kyle noticed several drawers built into one wall. He placed a hand on one of them, noting that they were cold to the touch.

_Wow,_ the investigative tech marveled. _Never been in a mortuary before—unless you count the showing rooms where Mom and Oliver's sister were just before their funerals…_

Kyle was careful not to touch anything that looked to be of any importance. He knew as well as anyone the fickleness of the justice system when things were 'broken' out of the chain of custody, and he wanted to give his unknowing hosts the benefit of that respect. Over on one of the long metal tables in the middle of the room lay a mass of something underneath a white sheet, and Kyle went over to look. The sheet was drawn up slightly, revealing to the tech the face a young man glazed in the ghostly pallor of death. He stared long and hard at the unfortunate serviceman, and wondered briefly what fate brought him to this pearlized part of the world in such a condition.

_Was it from the war, soldier? _Kyle mused. _Did you step somewhere you shouldn't have? Or was it something domestic—an accident, perhaps, or an enemy long forgotten come to pay vengeance? _The young man couldn't help but wonder if Oliver would be found in such a condition, and he worried greatly for his friend. He thought of Dr. Reid as well, all long and flustered but getting better with his signs and slowly opening up to the investigators he considered friends. _Will you be joining them soon?_ Kyle feared, trying to burn the images of a savagely murdered Oliver or a horribly violated and unrecognizable Reid out of his subconscious.

The young man closed his eyes as he continued to stand over the fallen soldier, and before he knew it his hands were moving. --Dear God,--he said, --please accept this man into your Paradise. He has served you well, I believe, and will be greatly missed. Please also look over Oliver and Reid, who are missing from our sight but always visible in yours. Help us to bring them back from what evil plagues them, and to restore them to our sight. Amen.—

When Kyle opened his eyes he noticed a short little man with glasses standing next to him, his head also bowed slightly. –I'm so sorry,-- Kyle signed, still unsure of his voice. –I'm intruding…--

"My dear boy, you'll have to speak up," the little man said, making sure he stood in front of Kyle's line of sight. "I'm afraid my knowledge of American Sign Language is far inferior to that of our dear Abby…"

Kyle chuckled. Then he reached for his notepad. _I know Abby,_ he wrote. _She's helping me, and I kind of wandered off._

"Helping you?"

Kyle nodded. _It's a long story…_

The little man picked up his tools and pulled back the sheet on the soldier before them, now bereft of life. "Good heavens," Kyle saw him say. "I do believe our friend here took a rather nasty misstep…" The man gestured to the end of the table, where the lower extremities of the soldier were missing. "Would you care to observe? That is, unless your 'situation' prohibits…"

_I'd like that,_ Kyle wrote. _It'll help me keep my mind off things out of my control for a bit. You can talk to me, if you like—you speak well, and I can read your lips like a book. My name's Kyle Parker, I work as a private investigator._

"And your work brought you to Abby?"

Another nod. _I had the good fortune to work with her once, along with my employer. She's the best._

"A Navy case?"

_Then, yes. Now, no._

The little man's eyes furrowed in confusion. "Then why…"

_Two friends of mine went missing last night—one a former FBI agent and one currently employed there. The scene didn't show any evidence of a struggle, or of coercion, but… _Kyle stopped, searching for the right words. _…something inside me says there was. _

"The infamous 'gut.'"

Kyle nodded. _I know my colleague—he's also a good friend. I know our other friend too. What was in our office shouldn't have been there if it was a legitimate exit. Plus there's the van outside the building…_

"So you called Abby?"

_Yes. She's the best. We know too many people at the FBI, and our local sheriff is a joke. She and an Agent McGee are trying to help me, as well as a friend from the Bureau. And we're all trying not to tip our employers off that something might be wrong._

"Because something might not be wrong at all," the little man said. "Ha! Look here," he told Kyle, motioning the young man to take a peek. "Our friend here saved himself a lot of anguish."

Kyle's shoulders shrugged slightly, indicating his confusion.

"This little mass here," the man said, pointing out a small grayish substance connected to what remained of the soldier's lower back. "I'm afraid it was probably much larger, and was causing quite a great deal of pain. My guess is he probably couldn't feel the land mine beneath him."

_This man died in the war?_

"Suspicious circumstances," the little man said, a slight twinkle in his eye. "Only not so suspicious anymore."

_You can't prove this man didn't just make a mistake, _Kyle wrote. _For all we know, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time._

"Quite true, my boy, quite true. However, his cause of death is obvious—explosion of an incendiary substance; land mine."

Kyle smiled. –What's your name?— he asked, forgetting his notepad.

"Ah, now that one I know," the little man replied. "Dr. Donald Mallard, though most people just call me Ducky."

The younger man smiled at that, and made a special sign—placing his right hand on his lips, forming a 'beak' with the index and middle fingers and the thumb. "Duck," he said, pointing at the doctor and hoping his voice was understandable. The doctor beamed. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Now, I think you'd better run up to Abby's lab—I have a feeling there might be some news about your friends..."

Kyle waved to Ducky and immediately made a beeline for the elevator.


	10. Good Intentions

**Usual disclaimers, plus one for really really angsty stuff. I warn dark themes, people!

* * *

**

--Is there anything?-- Kyle asked as he raced into the lab, nearly knocking over a strange contraption that looked rather complicated and expensive. He deftly dove underneath the falling object and managed to save it from shattering into a million pieces.

--Nice catch!—the raven-haired technician said, giving Kyle the thumbs-up. –And my microscope thanks you too!—

--No problem. Now, is there anything?—

Abby pointed at her plasma screen, which was emblazoned with the bespectacled face of Penelope Garcia. –"Ask her,"—she said. –"She got all McGee-like on me and just dropped in…"—

"And with some good news, anyway," Garcia said hastily, not to be outdone. Turning towards Kyle's position so that he could see her face, the bubbly blonde spoke. "I found a hit in one of the more obscure databases out there—one without any cool letter strings, if you can believe it."

"And?" Kyle said, using his voice.

"And the print got a hit, but there's a problem."

Kyle looked at Abby with one eyebrow raised, a clear sign of confusion. The forensics specialist translated the message, and Kyle's face fell nearly a mile. –Problem?!—

"The person it coughed up…well…he's supposed to be dead."

--Great. You're telling me I'm crazy.-- Kyle rolled his eyes and sank into the waiting desk chair. –Or better, that Oliver and Reid were kidnapped by ghosts.—

--"Ghosts do not leave evidence,"—Abby said firmly. –"Your mystery man is very real."—

--You're sure?—

"It's entirely possible that our creep stole someone's identity, or took over one from a dead guy," Garcia admitted. "I'm looking into that possibility as we speak."

--What about the rest of the evidence?—Kyle asked, looking at Abby.

Abby shrugged. –"We got sea salt, white fibers, and a dead man's print."—

--Not enough to tell us anything.—

--"But enough to tell us that something's definitely hinky,"—Abby countered. The sound of Garcia's slight chuckle echoed through the lab. "Something funny?" the white-coated technician said, glaring at the screen.

"No, just that the word 'hinky' is kinda cool."

"Thanks," Abby said, quickly turning her glare into a smile. "Love the colors, by the way!"

Garcia blushed a little. She was wearing her purple glasses and had gone all out in pinks and blacks and some bits of fuchsia. "Place needed some sprucing up. Glad you like it!"

Kyle clapped his hands, forcing the girls out of their sudden chatfest. –Two people missing, four more people lying to their respective employers, and we've got diddly-squat to set everything right. This is great. Maybe I really am crazy…--

Just then McGee raced in and began loading something onto Abby's computer, turning the smaller screen into a veritable plethora of windows and images. "Finally got something on that tire tread…"

--"You got something off _that_?"—Abby asked, rather impressed. –"I was about to give up on it…"—

"Well, you were absolutely right on one thing—the tire is useless as a lead."

--"Then what did you _find_, McGee?"-- Abby challenged, her nostrils flaring slightly and her face firmly set in a _look_.

"Wear pattern. See this?" An image blew up on the screen, showing a rather large divot in the left side tread. "That, Abby, is…"

--A nail,-- Kyle said before the tech could speak up. He traced the shape of the divot, noting it had a peculiar square-like shape. –A cut nail, to be exact.—

"Cut nails aren't in use much anymore, except if you make your own nails," McGee added. "So we're looking for people who know how to work metal and are used to making their own stuff, even nails."

"Hobbyists, woodworking cultures, et cetera," Garcia said, quickly typing something into her computers on her end.

--"Or…this could be a plug in the tire,"— Abby suggested. –"And those can look like anything."—

Kyle shook his head. –It could be both. They can make plugs the same way as they would a nail, I think. But then you'd have to compare tool marks…--

--"Find me that tire, I can match it to a tool you bring me,"—Abby declared.

"Did you run the fibers for DNA?" McGee asked.

--"Couldn't find enough for a match. The sample was tiny, and degraded to boot."—

"Send me those results anyway," Garcia said. "I've got a few things I can try..."

--The dead guy, what's his name?— Kyle asked. –At least that gives me a place to start.—

Garcia consulted her monitor. "Guy's name is Carlos Pena. Died in a raid on a barn located on a key just off of the Miami coast."

--I'll see what I can come up with. Thanks, Garcia.—

"No problem. Keep me in the loop, and I'll…" she began, when Abby and McGee heard her office phone go off. "Talk dirty to me," Garcia said, a smile creeping over her face. "The first minute's free."

"Garcia, can you run a list of polygamist groups operating near the Castle Dale area?" a female voice asked, chuckling at the technician's joke. "And you can charge the rest of the bill on Morgan's account."

"Surely you jest," Garcia said. "For you, Em, the toll's on me. Let me get back to you in a jif on that…"

"Thanks. Hey, have you heard from Reid? Hotch is on the warpath, and about to call someone over at the Navy Yard…"

The four figures working on the 'secret' case felt their faces blanching at once. _What now? _McGee mouthed silently, and Garcia quickly caught Abby's reaction.

"Uh, sure," Garcia said. "He said it was a Special Agent McGee that had him drop by…something to do with a particularly difficult interrogation of a murder suspect that's about to ship out…"

The voice on the other line sighed. "Well, we could really use him out here. He was great in Colorado, and we've got one of those Cyrus-types…"

"You got it. I'll make some calls, put the smack down on the people keeping him," Garcia said. "Later." As soon as the phone disconnected, she heaved a huge sigh. "I am _so_ getting fired for this…"

--Don't worry, Garcia,-- Kyle said. –We'll all probably be fired for this.—

----

It was impossible to tell just how long he'd been sitting in that miserable room, on display like a collectable item or a child's toy still in the original packaging. Reid kept his back to the clear window of a door, wishing he had free use of his hands if only to wrap his arms around himself. The aching limbs were beginning to stiffen in the forced and unnatural position they were bound in, and it seemed like the hateful steel bracelets would never be removed from his wrists.

Footsteps scuttled past the back wall of the stifling cubicle, assaulting Reid's ears with every stomp and shuffle. He'd lost count after the first ten or so, realizing that the group that planned to 'sell' him and Oliver was much larger than he'd thought. After a while, however, the footsteps ceased, and Reid was left to let his mind wander his fate.

The sound of his stomach protesting made the profiler realize he was famished. The prospect of getting anything to eat seemed like a distant fantasy, however, so Reid tried to focus his thoughts on other things. A chill persisted in wrapping its icy tentacles around his thin frame, and there was no way of warding it off. His hair was still damp from the forced shower, and small droplets continued to fall onto his knees, which were pulled as close to his torso as they could possibly be.

_Can it get any worse?_ Reid wondered. He wished he were anywhere else in the world--even back in that hateful shack deep in the Georgia woods. The concept of being purchased—_purchased!_—like cattle or a table lamp for a buyer's pleasure was becoming harder to fathom, and yet Reid realized that soon that very circumstance would soon befall him. His mind was so wrapped up in trying to devise a way out of this hellish nightmare that he took no notice of the soft _creak_ of the plastic door's solid hinges. It wasn't until the touch of cold fingers played across his bare shoulder and the rustle of fabric sang through his ears that the profiler realized he wasn't alone.

"_Hola, querido,"_ a familiar voice cooed behind his ear. "It's a pity you can't hear me…" Reid bristled as the gentle fingertips began to caress the curves of his back, and he tried to pull away when those appendages began to explore the soft parts of his throat. Strong arms pulled Reid closer to the warm figure behind him, and soft hands began to tenderly work their way across his exposed midsection, tracing each line of muscle that existed across his torso. "So soft," the voice behind him whispered, full of infatuation with the unwilling man who was a prisoner to the younger man's advances. "So gentle."

Full of loathing and disgust, Reid tried to curl himself further into a ball, trying desperately to shy away from the young man's touch. He felt as though each brush of the man's fingertips or affectionate word that reached his ears was an infringement on his person, and he longed to scream at his assailant to leave him alone. However, he ground his teeth and compelled himself to remain quiet. The thought of being lost to Oliver or any hope of rescue dwelled heavily on his mind.

"I brought something for you," the young man said, and the sound of plastic crinkling rang through Reid's cochleas. The smell of chocolate wafted towards the profiler's nose, teasing him with the memory of Hershey bars that lay in his desk drawer at the BAU or the thick cake that JJ had insisted on making for his last birthday. The taste of bile rose in his throat, and his stomach growled loudly at the thought of actual sustenance. "I know you won't tell on me—we're not supposed to feed the merchandise until after the sale."

The idea of eating _anything_ made Reid gingerly lift his head up from its protective stance. He wriggled a little, indicating his bound hands behind him.

"I can't, _querido,_" the young man said, lifting Reid's head up to meet his eyes. "I don't have the keys. And I can't ask…" He turned slightly to pick up a packaged cupcake, the kind with the little white squiggle of icing on the top. It took every ounce of willpower Reid possessed to not drool over the confection, especially considering where it was coming from. On the other hand, he was so hungry he felt he could eat just about anything put in front of him. The dinner he was supposed to have shared with Kyle and Oliver had been a dream unfulfilled, and the thought of starving for who knew how long was one Reid refused to acknowledge.

The young man picked up the cupcake with long fingers, and Reid's warm eyes latched onto the chocolate concoction like a puppy eagerly expecting a biscuit. As long fingers broke the cake into pieces, Reid's breaths began to deepen, and his tongue ran itself impatiently over the back of his teeth. He swallowed thickly, imagining the taste of cocoa and sugar coating his soft palate and his tongue.

"I hope you like this," the young man said, gently holding a piece of the cake out for Reid to take. "These are my favorites. Perhaps soon I'll learn a little more about you, _querido_—just a little. The rest I'd like to figure out myself."

Reid attacked the section of cupcake as though it were the last morsel of food left on earth. He rolled the spongy confection in his mouth for a moment, trying to eat the cream filling before sinking his teeth into the chocolate. He let the stiff icing lay across his tongue, allowing the sugar to dissolve onto his tongue. Swallowing quickly, Reid's eyes instantly looked over at the remaining pieces of torn cupcake, growing wide in anticipation of another bite.

"Slow down," his captor said. "You might get sick. We can't have that."

_Sick or no, I'm starving, can't you see that?! _Reid thought. _Give me the damn cupcake!_

"Here," the man said, turning his head of black hair towards Reid's line of sight. The sound of something scratching on the concrete floor bristled in Reid's ears, and soon a plastic cup was being held to his lips. "Drink, _querido._ It's good water."

The profiler drank greedily, as though he'd never seen the clear liquid before in his life. Reid had been too shocked and mortified to attempt taking a drink in the 'shower,' and the remnants of unswallowed cake were settling thickly in his mouth, making it dry.

"Slow down," his captor said, pulling the glass away. "You'll be sick."

_Please, give me more, _Reid begged silently, hoping to convey the message through his eyes. _Don't take it away…_

"I can't risk it. I'll be in enough trouble as it is if Darius finds out I've been here," the young man said, as if he was telepathically communicating with the object of his infatuation. "I'll let you have another sip, but no more."

Reid accepted the cup gratefully, taking another long pull from the cup. The last few crumbs of cake washed down into his esophagus, and the taste of chocolate still lingered on the back of his teeth. He wished he could have another bite, but refused to betray his secret—it was too important to keep.

"Until later, _querido_," the young man purred, waving slightly. "Soon this place will be nothing but a memory."

As the clear bar fell into place, locking Reid in the tiny cubicle, his mind rolled over that last statement. _What does he know that I don't?_ he wondered suspiciously. _And more importantly, how do I play into it?_


	11. Promises, Promises

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

McGee sat at his desk, running as much information as the little group had gathered during their last 'information gathering' session. His eyes kept flicking nervously towards the phone handset, as though he were expecting a call he didn't particularly want to take.

"Something wrong, McGee?" a voice said, startling him. The special agent looked up to see his colleague staring at him from across the room, a rather curious look on her face.

"Nothing," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you're looking at that phone as if it might beat you."

"_Eat_ me, you mean?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

McGee shook his head dismissively. "No, the phone's not going to eat me, Ziva…" Just then, however, it rang, startling him and making him jump a little. "NCIS, Special Agent McGee…" he answered, hoping it was a call from his publisher or his sister or even the new mechanics for his car that he'd found to replace the fast-talking con artists he'd recently dispatched.

"Agent McGee, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner, from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI."

"Ah, yes," McGee gulped. "Good afternoon."

"Agent McGee, I'm being led to understand that you have one of my profilers assisting you on a case…"

"Yes," the round man blurted out. "Yes, we do—a Dr. Reid…"

"That's him. I'm sorry, but I need you to send him back as soon as possible. Seeing as this wasn't an 'official' request for our—and his—help, I'm going to have to have him in Utah as soon as possible."

"Current case, sir?" McGee asked, trying hard to hide the fact that something was wrong.

"Yeah. Listen, tell him to turn his phone back on and head out immediately, hmm?"

"I'll get right on that," the naval agent replied. "I do want to thank you for the help, though, unofficial or not."

"Certainly. Have Reid give you our liason's number, and perhaps we can be of better assistance in the future."

"Will do. Again, thank you."

The phone disconnected, and McGee heaved a gigantic sigh.

"Who is 'Dr. Reid?'" Ziva asked, having crept behind the younger man while on the phone. "Did Ducky hire a new assistant?"

"What? No," McGee responded, flustered. "Nope, Jimmy's still down there with him."

"Then who is…"

"Ziva, I'm not at liberty to discuss it," McGee said firmly, hoping it would be an end to the matter. The agent silently thanked God that the Director had sent Gibbs and Tony on an overnight conference that morning to Norfolk—it meant that he and Abby had just less than thirty-six hours to find these missing people of Kyle Parker's before they were found out—if, in fact, they were missing at all…

"Hmmph," the Mossad agent snorted. "Believe me, McGee, I will get to the bottom of this…"

_Just hopefully not before we find these guys,_ he thought as Ziva sauntered back to her desk. Suddenly an email popped up on McGee's monitor:

_McGee—_

_This guy Pena, I tracked his records. There's something familiar about the guy, but I can't put my finger on it. Can you meet me? I'll tell you all about it then—I'm not sure about the security of these lines…_

_Kyle Parker_

McGee cleared his screen, set the screensaver, and hurried towards the interrogation rooms. Unbeknownst to him, a certain lithe figure followed, taking care to note which room McGee entered. The woman crept into Observation 2, noticing a sandy-haired man sitting hunched over a laptop. He didn't look up until McGee tapped on the table.

"You said there was something I should see?" her colleague asked. Ziva noticed that he spoke slowly and clearly, and that he made sure to face his 'visitor' as he did.

The stranger nodded, and pointed at his screen. He scribbled something on a small notepad, and passed it to McGee, who read with interest.

"You're sure this guy's dead?"

The man nodded.

"Then we're at a dead end." McGee rose from his chair and began scratching the back of his head.

"No," the stranger said in a very garbled voice. Picking up his pen again, he scrawled another note and thrust it at McGee, who took it from his hand.

"You think someone's picked it back up?"

The stranger shrugged, but nodded his head slightly.

"Fine. I can do a search."

Shaking his head wildly, the sandy-haired man cried, "No!" He then inscribed another note and shoved it across the table.

"Okay, we'll let her do it. What do you propose _we_ do, then?"

The strange man picked up his hands and began to move them, much like Abby or Gibbs did when they were speaking in sign language.

_So he is deaf,_ Ziva realized. _But what is he doing here? And how does McGee know him?_

"I…I can't understand," McGee told his guest, tapping his forehead.

Another note was scrawled out and given to the agent. "You want us to go down to Miami?"

A bold and determined nod was McGee's only answer.

"No," the agent said. "I can't just go off to Miami…" When the stranger began to protest, McGee continued. "We have no jurisdiction! And, moreover, we have no case!"

The stranger stood up, firing off a few signs at McGee. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. McGee quickly followed.

Ziva stepped out of Observation and managed to see the young man stalking around the corner towards the bullpen. "McGee!" she called out. "Over here!" Her colleague followed her as she trailed the angry young man towards the elevator, and both of them managed to slide in just before the doors fell shut. The stranger refused to look at McGee, instead focusing on the rather attractive Ziva. His stare became wider, however, when the woman pulled the emergency stop button on the elevator car, causing the container to stop instantly.

"Now," Ziva said, staring at the two men who looked at her bewilderingly, "you're going to tell me what's going on, or I promise you'll wish you were dealing with Gibbs himself." The lithe Mossad officer stood firmly with her back to the control panel, allowing her 'prisoners' no access.

Knowing Ziva, McGee sighed. "Tell her," he said, looking at the stranger between them. "It's your theory…"

----

A chill worked its way up Oliver's spine. His hair dripped like a leaking shower head, and he desperately wanted to remove the hateful cloth from his mouth. Oliver had screamed and cursed so much during his 'bath' that the guard finally gagged him, tying the cloth so tightly that Oliver could taste blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He was then frog-marched stark-naked up the stairs, in full view of everyone, and dumped in one of the cubicles he'd seen earlier. As soon as the Plexiglas door was slammed shut and the thick clear bar wedged into place, the guard lingered in front of the transparent barrier, taking a look at his 'merchandise.'

"I think we might get some fun out of you," he said, though because of the thick plastic Oliver had to strain his ears to hear him. "Oh, yes…"

The thought of being forced to submit to these sick individuals' whims was enough to make Oliver's stomach turn. He stood defiantly, though a part of him wanted to crawl in a hole and die. _If I let them think they've cowed me, it's over,_ he determined. _But as much as I hate to admit it, it's working…_

Oliver thought about everything that had happened since they'd been kidnapped from the office. He recalled Reid cringing in shame after the 'walk' they'd been allowed, and Oliver had a feeling he knew why. He himself had wanted to struggle against the men holding him and run as fast as possible, but he'd been kept in place by a stern warning that if he fought, Reid would suffer greatly for it. Not wanting to admit defeat, Oliver had made it as difficult as possible to allow the guard access to the fasteners on his jeans, and the second those rough hands had found what they were looking for, Oliver had shuddered and cringed as though he had been ravished by these vile, disgusting men.

The inspection had come next, and that experience had sunk Oliver's hopes even lower. Though it appeared he would not be 'sold' as a matter of chance, he desperately did not want to see what might happen to his friend should the auction come to pass without incident. The thought of Reid being forced to 'pleasure' some sick man who would beat and abuse him made Oliver want to throw up. He knew that, for himself, he might have to endure years of humiliation and beatings as the 'boss' chose to take out his frustrations on a possibly perpetually bound and helpless Oliver.

Then the 'bath.' Oliver had cursed at the guard when he had intimated that Oliver might never receive another, as the thought of being forced to wallow in dirt and other waste had made his stomach violently revolt. His response was a fierce slap to the head, and Oliver worried that he might be suffering a concussion because of it.

_This is just business for them,_ the investigator reasoned. _There is absolutely no value to a human life other than a monetary one for these people, and those unfortunates who are snared by their deception and lies are only going to receive humiliation and misery in return._

Oliver's mind flashed back to a small attic room in Baltimore, where he had managed to find one more victim of a giant trafficking operation—a little girl who had believed she would sing in the Maryland nightclubs that littered the city. She had been lying on a dirt-and flea-infested mattress, and her swollen midsection was barely covered by the tattered shift she'd been allowed to wear.

"How old are you?" he'd asked, with Josh's help. The little girl spoke only Russian, but knew a couple of English words from the books she'd read in her village.

"Fourteen," she'd replied. Both Oliver and his mentor knew that she had been lying, but they let it slide.

"Do you have a name?"

The little girl had fallen silent a moment. "Sasha," she'd said, very softly.

Oliver thought now of Sasha, of what life must have been like for her in that despicable place. He thought too of what was likely to befall him, and wondered if he was strong enough to endure the horrors as she had. The cold damp air began to seep through the sturdy walls of his prison, and began to weave over his naked frame like strong cords that made up a fishing net. Oliver's teeth chattered, biting down on the cloth that had been wedged between his teeth as a silencer.

The faint _creak_ of door hinges trickled through Oliver's ears, and the investigator tried to see where the noise was coming from. _Who's there? _he wondered feverishly, straining his neck for a better look. The vantage point that the tiny cubicle offered was not sufficient enough to see who had come in, nor where the person had gone. Oliver quickly sat back down, unwilling to leave himself exposed to prying eyes for very long. He thought of Reid, whose shyness and intense introversion would make this experience even more degrading that it would for someone like Oliver, who was a little bit more of a performer.

Pain worked its way up Oliver's stomach, the organs vehemently protesting the lack of sustenance inside it. The sour taste of the cloth mingled with the coppery taste of the blood dripping from the corner of his lips, and the combination was enough to make Oliver desperate for water. _What I wouldn't do now for even a sip,_ he thought, beginning to rationalize even the most denigrating actions on his part as being acceptable as payment for access to even a drop of the cold, clear liquid he so agonizingly craved.

_Why don't they just kill me?_ he wondered after several minutes of excruciating silence. Oliver attempted to make himself as comfortable as he could on the cold concrete floor, but the prickly grains of sand and pulverized rock embedded inside continued to nip into his divested flesh, making the act of sitting for any length of time an unbearable one. _Because then the payoff would be too quick and not as satisfying,_ he realized. _It's more 'fun' to see me suffer for whatever transgressions they think 'my boss' has brought onto them than to 'make an example' of me. _Oliver wished he knew exactly what this was all about. He had a feeling that this was one of Chase's earlier cases coming back to bite them—that had a habit of happening a lot—but he still couldn't shake the idea that it could be something related to Josh or his former superiors from the FBI.

The former agent racked his brains fervently, trying to figure out what 'trespass' had led him to this horrible fate. He was so focused on his thoughts that he never heard the door creak open, nor the footsteps of the man entering until it was too late.

"Well, well," the dark-haired man remarked icily, staring down at Oliver's hunched frame. "Trying to figure out what's going on, _esclavo?_ I would have thought you'd figured it out by now…"

Oliver glared at the man, his eyes furrowing into narrow slits. He longed to lash out at the presumptuous man, now laughing at him with eyes that twinkled merrily at the investigator's misfortune.

"_Si,_ that lady boss of yours, she'll soon learn not to go nosing into other people's business," the man continued. "After a while I might send a picture or some other 'intimate' token her way—just as a reminder of how much you and your friend are suffering because of her."

_That'll kill her! _Oliver thought savagely. He knew how hard his employer took attacks against the people she cared about, and he could identify with that. He'd felt the same way after Sarah's murder, and he knew she still struggled with Ben Rothschild's slaying very intensely, even after nearly eight years. Oliver struggled to get to his feet, furious that he'd let this man get the better of him.

"Stay down, _pequeña puta_," the man snapped, kicking Oliver squarely in the ribs. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, and Oliver coughed and sputtered through the tight gag still bound through his teeth. "You'll move when I _tell_ you to move, _comprende?_"

The only sounds that emanated from the tiny cubicle were the deep, ragged breaths coming from Oliver's nostrils—ones filled with loathing for the man in front of him and with pain from the blow he'd suffered.

"Oh, yes," the man chortled evilly, staring at a certain part of Oliver's anatomy that he usually kept covered from view. "And how you'll 'move' for me…"

The thought made Oliver sick to his stomach.


	12. The Truth and Other Lies

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Let me see if I have this," Ziva said. "Your friends, they went missing last night…"

Kyle nodded.

"And you think some sort of foul play has taken place…"

Another nod.

"But you have very little proof, and none that definitively points to this."

Kyle tipped his hands in a conciliatory motion. –But I know I'm right,-- he signed. The lovely woman looked a little confused at first, but then a glimmer of understanding graced her features.

"And this is a Navy case how?"

The young man let out a giant sigh, letting his hands drop to his sides as he reached for his notepad. _It's not. But, like you said, there's not enough evidence to go to the authorities, and especially not the sheriff where I'm from._

"You do not get along?"

A firm shake of a blonde head told the Mossad officer enough.

"Next thing I know, Abby's calling me and we're taking pictures in a little college town," McGee finished. "I'm telling you, Ziva, there isn't much to work with…"

"Do you think these men went missing, McGee?"

It was questions like that that reminded McGee just how much he liked having Ziva around.

"I don't know them, but I know it was awfully cold last night, and no one in their right mind would have left good winter coats behind to run an errand in freezing weather. Plus there's the question of the doctor's car still being there…"

"Perhaps they took this Lawrence's…?"

Kyle shook his head. _Oliver doesn't bother to drive his Beetle much if there's no case pending, _he wrote. _It's been acting up, and vintage parts for a '68 are hard to come by. The office isn't far from his apartment, either, so he usually walks. I did check that before we left Campbell—it's still in its usual spot._

McGee looked at Kyle, stunned. "He's got a '68 Beetle? Wow."

Kyle nodded, then placed both his flat hands near his temples and drew them out from his face. "Focus," he said, his voice causing the pair to wince a little. _When Dr. Reid doesn't show up in Utah, his boss will know something's wrong, and it's game over. That's why we have to go to Miami—I could swear I've seen this place that's in the pictures before…_

"This man you are looking at--"

"Pena," McGee supplied.

"Yes. What became of him?"

--I'm sorry?—

"What happened to him?"

Kyle's face brightened a little in understanding. _He was the head of a rather large trafficking operation. When my employer and several other agencies cornered him, he decided to try and 'destroy' as much of the 'merchandise' as possible. _The investigative tech made a face that made even Ziva flinch. _All those people…_

"People?" Now Ziva's interest perked up.

_Yes. Pena was trafficking people. What was different about him was that instead of focusing on only women or children, he took mostly young people between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five—though my employer said that a lot of them looked underage. Men and women both._

"That's brilliant," Ziva said quickly. "Sick and disgusting, but brilliant."

"Because no one puts out AMBER alerts for anyone of age," McGee realized. "Most standards require the person be missing for at least forty-eight to seventy-two hours."

"And by then it's too late," Ziva finished. "The person is lost." Turning to Kyle, she said, "You really think Miami is where to start?"

_All I know is that my friends are missing, there's sea salt involved, and there's a case that fits the dead man's prints Abby and Garcia found. I have to start somewhere._

"You mean 'we,'" Ziva corrected.

Kyle furrowed his brow, his lips twisted in confusion.

"You said 'I have to start somewhere.' I think what you meant to say is 'we have to start somewhere.'" Ziva pushed the emergency stop button back into place, and the car lit up and resumed its descent. "McGee, is your car still in for repair?"

"No, I got it back two days….why?" McGee had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going, and a part of him was apprehensive.

"You're driving. I would do it myself, but I do not own a fast car," his colleague said simply. "I will put my things in the boot, though."

----

"Come on, come on," Abby murmured as she waited rather impatiently for her mass spectrometer to run its course. "Why can't you work any faster?!"

The aforementioned piece of equipment still continued to hum as though no further demands were being placed on it.

Abby sighed. For not being a Navy case, this was one of the most challenging she'd come across in some time. The more time she spent with the sparse amount of evidence collected from Kyle's office, the more she became convinced that something was definitely hinky. Processing both Lawrence and Dr. Reid's coats had provided nothing out of the ordinary, and neither had the Glock that Kyle had brought up from his colleague's desk. Now Abby was staring down at Dr. Reid's Sig Sauer, almost daring it to be as clean as his friend's weapon before it.

"No one commits the perfect crime," she muttered half-under her breath. "At least, not while I'm around to figure it out." Picking up the brush full of fingerprint dust, she gently swiped the entire piece with the fine, lime-green substance. The shout of joy that escaped her throat did not fall on deaf ears.

"Abigail!" a voice called out. "Are you all right?!"

"Oooh, Ducky!" Abby squealed. "I am _so_ much better than all right!"

"You've found something?"

"These people, whoever they are, they're good, Ducky," Abby said. "And I say that very seriously. There is, like, almost _no_ evidence at all, and now a good fingerprint!"

"Ah," the ME replied. "Mr. Parker's missing comrades."

"Yeah. Wait—you know about…"

"I had the good fortune to meet the young man while he was waiting, my dear," Ducky explained. "He had made his way down to the morgue, and was standing over our poor lieutenant when I met him."

"The one with…"

"One and the same. An accident, but perhaps not an entirely random one." The doctor looked over at the green-dusted weapon lying on Abby's table. "This is your print?"

"Yes. I've seen the elimination ones enough to know on sight that it's not the owner's, so that leaves…"

"The perpetrator," Ducky finished.

"Exactly." The smile on Abby's face was enough to light a room. Then it fell just as suddenly. "Ducky, you won't tell Gibbs…?"

"I believe that, for the time being, you and Timothy's little 'side project' can stay under wraps. However, I would urge caution—once Gibbs arrives back, you may have some explaining to do…"

"Why?"

"Because I just saw Timothy and Ziva walking out of the building with our new friend," the ME replied as he walked back out of Abby's lab. "Somehow I do not think they were taking Mr. Parker home."

----

Garcia glared at her computer screens, as though they had been re-attacked by the Fisher King himself. "You are not being helpful," she snapped.

Though this Abby had been fairly good at keeping her within the loop, Garcia continued to run the scant information through her databases in an effort to find _anything_ that might yield a clue as to Reid and Oliver's whereabouts. She, like Kyle Parker, knew that something had to be dreadfully wrong for two intelligent men—one of whom was a certified genius—to simply walk unprotected into a frigid winter night and vanish into thin air. Garcia had to give Kyle credit—he wasn't giving up, and he'd had the forethought to bring in forensics people that she knew by reputation were top-notch. _Only the best for my boys,_ she thought.

However, Garcia found herself striking out time and again with the print Abby had managed to find in the office. Aside from being listed as a dead man, the print managed to turn up nothing else. Garcia had run the name the print belonged to through her databases, and found that the man it had belonged to had been definitely one sick and creepy individual.

"Carlos Pena, I hope you're rolling in Hell," the tech breathed, still trying to search for anything else she could find about the man. "Because if you're not…"

The phone rang, and a quick jab of a pen cap answered it. "What?" she snapped, her cheerful mood now clouded with frustration.

"Hey, baby girl, what's with the attitude?" a welcome voice teased gently.

"Morgan, is there something you need? I'm really kind of busy…"

"Yeah, there is," Morgan said, the confusion in his voice evident. "Can you look up a David Simon? We think he's the ringleader of this operation out here…"

"One sick polygamist creep coming up. Anything else?"

"Uh, yeah," her colleague said. "You happen to know if Reid's left yet? Cause we really could use him out here…"

"Reid left?"

"Yeah, left the Navy Yard," Morgan clarified. "I'm telling you, Hotch is…well, he's not quite mad but he ain't happy, that's sure."

"They found him?"

Silence loomed over the line for a moment. "Found him?"

Garcia mentally kicked herself. "Uh, nothing. Yeah, soon as I know anything you'll be the first. Bye."

Once the phone had hung up, Garcia swallowed thickly. Reaching for her keyboard, she quickly sent out a mass text to the 'players' involved in this little 'covert' operation, informing them of a 'slight' hiccup in the works…

----

Morgan listened to the dial tone a second and then switched his phone off. "Any luck?" he heard Emily ask as the two continued their drive from Boise back to Castle Dale.

"She's looking into Simon right now," he replied, his voice growing a little distant.

"Something wrong?"

"I just had probably the weirdest conversation I've ever had with Garcia right then," Morgan admitted. "Something ain't right, that I'm sure about."

"How can you tell?"

"When I called, she said she was busy with something. She's pretty exclusive to our unit, and it'd have to be huge for another section to tap her for help. I'd say she was working on our case, but she gave us our information in record time on the last call."

"So she's working on something," Emily said. "You know she's always trying to improve on her Tetris skills…"

"It's not just that," Morgan countered, deftly missing the large animal that decided to wander into the two-lane highway. "When I asked about Reid, she asked me if 'they found him.'"

"But we know where he is," Emily said. "The Navy Yard."

Morgan sighed. "Between you and me, I'm not so sure. I was in the room when Hotch called that agent out there, and there was something to the conversation that didn't set well with him, that I can tell you."

"What was said?"

"He wasn't on speaker. I just…have a feeling, you know?"

"Well, we can't worry about it now," Emily said. "For all we know, Reid just got lost coming back from the Navy base, and they needed to send out the cavalry. There's five little girls that need us to focus, Morgan. We have to deal with that first."

Morgan sighed. "I know. That bastard, using little girls…"


	13. For What it's Worth

**Usual disclaimers, plus one for dark stuff.** **Be warned.

* * *

**

Darius Luna was sitting in what he called 'the receiving room' of his grand estate. Unlike his uncle before him, Darius had managed to gain control of an uninhabited key just off the Florida coast—creating the perfect hideaway to run his 'operation' from. The lines of jurisdiction fell into his favor, being that the key was just three miles from Key West, putting the secluded area in international waters. Over time, he had managed to use his former position working for his uncle Carlos to amass a small fortune, and had set up his own operation when the _federales_ had sent his uncle's business—and, indirectly, his uncle himself—up in smoke. He was awaiting a small shipment that was to arrive from the Florida coast and another from Havana. Cubans made easy targets, in his experience, but now an again he would take 'merchandise' from locales as far away as Hong Kong if he could fetch a decent price for it.

The thought of a small sale excited him, especially since he was eager to put his 'prize pieces' through the auction process. He knew he would keep the one called Oliver—he had been looking for a replacement for some time anyway—but the deaf one posed a bit of a quandary. Though exquisite, and therefore worth an excellent sum, Darius worried that because the young man could not take direction as his usual customers wished, it would cause the young man to lose value. Then there was the fact his cousin had seemed to take a liking to that _esclavo_—more so than any other they'd picked up in the past. There was talk amongst the men about Raul offering to give up payment in exchange for the deaf creature, and he was in half a mind to allow it.

_I'll rig the sale, let him take the thing home with him,_ Darius decided. _But I want to show him off first…make him suffer a little. Put the fear of God into that Oliver's heart. The thought of losing his friend…might even make a nice video to send that _pequeña perra _after a time…especially once the _esclavos_ are 'working' for us…_

The thought put a smile on Darius's face. He recalled the set of bright blue eyes that had blazed in fury at him after Darius had 'suggested' what his new acquisition would likely be compelled to do, and at what might happen to his friend. The concept of seeing that fiery look for months, even years to come put a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_Si, I think that will work out well,_ he decided as he stood from his plush chair, greeting the latest smuggler to deliver his merchandise.

----

Faint sounds rang through Reid's ears, waking the profiler from a fitful sleep. His skin was raw and bruised from where he had lain on the concrete, the surface acting as sandpaper to his delicate skin. His mouth was terribly dry, and he remembered the 'visit' the young man had paid him earlier. The taste of the cupcake still lingered in his mouth, and his stomach growled pitiably, desperate for some sort of nourishment. A shadow flickered across the thick drywall that made up the back wall of his prison, and Reid turned his head slightly to see a thick black curtain being hung over the Plexiglas door.

_Why now?_ he wondered, attempting to both turn around and sit up at the same time. _Why give us the gesture of decency now, when before these people seemed bent on humiliating us as much as possible?_

The sound of footsteps clattered about outside the cell, and Reid strained to hear what might be going on. The curtain prevented anyone from seeing in or out, and he only had traces of indistinct echoes to give him any clue as to what was going on. The young doctor could make out muted voices speaking a strange language, and the speaker was conducting the conversation in a genial, friendly manner. The soft babble of what Reid believed to be a small group of younger voices told him one of two things: that there were even more 'involved' in this ever-growing operation than he could have imagined, or that the young voices belonged to several unsuspecting 'pieces' of 'merchandise' that had no clue what might befall them. A snatch of song wafted through Reid's ears, and his stomach turned in horror at the sound.

_What lies did these people tell them?!_ he puzzled furiously. _They have no idea… _A part of him wanted desperately to call out through the thick plastic and soft fabric covering, to try and warn these people of their fates before it was too late, but he knew that his ruse had to be kept at all costs. It was his only chance of possibly getting through this nightmare in one piece. As the sounds of the small crowd began to dissipate, Reid felt hot tears falling onto his chest and heard soft sobs crawling up through his throat. _How many lives are they going to destroy? _he wondered fiercely. _How many will believe them, with their promises they never plan to keep?!_

The stress and tension were beginning to take its toll on the young profiler, and soon Reid tried to keep his balance as he fell towards a corner of the tiny cell and threw up. Streaks of brown covered the bile that clawed its way out of his esophagus, and Reid worried even more that a guard would see it and begin to wonder. _I can't take another beating,_ he thought feverishly. _Not now…_

Once his stomach had finished purging itself, Reid found himself desperate for something to rinse the bitter, acrid taste out of his mouth. He tried to spit as much of it out as he could, but the tang of hydrochloric acid that once resided in his organs still lingered. His stomach began to protest in vain, now painfully reminding Reid of its existence. His head began to pound, and a dull ache began forming behind his temples. Unconsciously, he tried to pick his hands up and rub them on the pressure points that Emily had taught him about, but the sharp jab of metal biting into his back and wrists jolted him from that idea in a hurry.

Shaking, nauseated, and now fighting off a growing headache, Reid forced himself to lay back down and try to get some sleep. He knew he would be poked and prodded later, and feared that he would be made to 'perform' for some potential 'buyer' that would purchase him as though he were a winter coat instead of a human being, a person with feelings and a name. It would take all the strength he could gather just to endure the humiliating display, and right now that strength was dwindling.

----

Oliver heard the footsteps walking in just as the guard hung the black curtain over the thick plastic door. The sounds of a voice floated in, very faintly, as though it were giving a lecture in a large hall. Oliver began to mentally translate the Spanish that continued to patter as the voice and the footsteps drew closer to his 'door':

"_Here we'll have each of you try out, before we definitively say which of you will be working on the mainland. Those of you who don't make it, take heart—there's plenty of service work available."_

"_Will there be work for younger people?" _one voice asked, a male voice. _"My sister, she's not yet sixteen…"_

"_Hmm," _the 'host' said, and the sound of circling steps sang through Oliver's ears. _"Perhaps. We'll see how it goes, eh?"_

The thought of a fifteen year-old being forced into a life of prostitution and slavery made Oliver's heart break. Tears ran down his face as his anger boiled over, and he tried screaming at the top of his lungs in the hopes of catching even one of the innocent victims' attention before it was too late. "No!" he shouted, not caring what fate might befall him for his defiance. _"¡Es una mentira! ¡Funcionamiento! ¡Funcionamiento!" _The words came out as a garbled mess of broken Spanish because of the gag wedged firmly between his teeth, but Oliver continued to scream his warning nonetheless, hoping that at least one of the unfortunate people out there would wonder about the noise.

The footsteps began to dissipate as the group was seemingly led off towards the back of the building, but a sharp succession of taps began to clatter their way towards Oliver's cell. The black curtain was thrown back viciously, nearly falling off its hooks on the fabricated ceiling of the cell, and the plastic door was wrenched open. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!" the guard shouted, lashing out at Oliver. Rough hands grabbed hold of the investigator's throat, and Oliver coughed painfully as the guard clenched his grip across his windpipe. "You think you're being clever, eh? Well, we'll see about that…"

Oliver bucked under the man's iron grasp, wriggling and thrashing to try and throw him off. "Let go of me!" he screamed through the hateful cloth in his mouth. "Get your hands off me!"

The guard quickly dropped his hands, smiling devilishly. "Oh, no, _esclavo_—you won't get me to end it that easy." Grabbing Oliver's shoulder, he yanked the younger man off the wall of the tiny prison and forced him out of the tiny cell, never taking his hands off of his prisoner. "Hey, Marco!" he called. "Get that broken one out here!"

"What for?"

"To teach this one a lesson, _ese._ Now, move!"

Oliver's eyes widened in fright. _No, not Reid,_ he thought wildly, now struggling even harder as his captor called for more assistance. _No, please…he hasn't done anything…!_

"Ugh, _mierda,_" the other man—Marco—cried as he opened another black-velvet covered cell door about three cubicles from Oliver's. "This one…_ai,_ it smells _horrible_!"

"Leave it," Oliver's guard snapped. "Just get him and string him up."

----

Reid's troubled sleep was broken by the sound door being swung open. "Ugh, _mierda,_" a guard said. "This one.._ai,_ it smells _horrible_!"

"Leave it," another voice said, this one just outside. "Just get him and string him up."

'_String me up'?! For what?! _Reid's mind was a blur as the first guard brutally yanked him from his curled position on the grainy concrete, causing his skin to suffer severe scratches as he was lifted to a standing position. He bit his lips, desperate to keep quiet, though he longed to cry out a myriad of questions—none the least of which was 'why are you _doing _this to me?!' He struggled as he was compelled towards a long freestanding metal frame that had chains attached—chains that were carefully hidden from immediate view. Reid's head turned downward to see a guard attaching the shackles at his ankles, and felt his arms being released from his handcuffs only to be reimprisoned in a set hanging down from the top of the frame. The result was Reid's long figure being forced into an 'arrow'-like position, with his hands bound to the frame together at the top and his ankles spread towards the frame's corners at the bottom. Behind him, he could hear a very familiar voice protesting vehemently, though its words were as mixed-up and garbled as Kyle Parker's on a _good_ day. The sound of a violent strike to something soft made the voice fall silent.

"Now, _perturbador_," a deep voice growled. "Now maybe you'll see that your actions come at a cost." The sound of something hard striking the air cracked through the room, and Reid took deep breaths, knowing what was about to happen. He set his jaw against every stroke, which stung and smarted, but he didn't feel any blood seeping or skin breaking—at least, he didn't think he did. All the while, Oliver's voice continued to cry out, pleading with Reid's tormentor to stop. After what felt like hours, the abuse suddenly ceased.

"Now, you think on that, the next time you want to call out," the guard said fiercely, and Reid could barely make out the sound of Oliver's body being shaken like a dry martini. "You caused this."

The only sounds that remained were the sounds of Reid being released from the frame and rebound with his handcuffs, and the sounds of Oliver sobbing quietly as he was forced back into his cell.

"Go take this one and clean him up a bit," the deep-voiced guard told a younger subordinate. "He's got to be in presentable condition for tonight."

Reid's own hopes began to shatter as he was marched into the 'shower' room again, forced to wait for another violation against his person.


	14. A Little Less Conversation

**Usual disclaimers. Sorry it's a short one.

* * *

**

"Hotch, calm down."

"I am calm."

"Yeah, calm like a hurricane. There has to be a logical explanation for this…"

"You mean better than 'he deliberately defied me and refused to show up'? Yeah, I hope there is. I told him…."

"Told him what?"

Hotch sighed. "That if he deliberately jeopardized himself again I'd fire him."

"Hotch, we're not sure he did that. For all we know, there really is a logical explanation."

"Well, good luck trying to find one. I've been calling this Special Agent McGee every chance I get for the last six hours, but he never seems to be in."

Now Rossi looked confused. "They're working on a murder suspect, and he's not taking calls?"

"I'm not sure how things work over there, but…" Hotch flipped his hands up in a gesture of resignment. "As soon as we finish processing Simon, we're in the air and I'm on my way to the Navy Yard. Something isn't right, Dave, I'm sure of it."

"Is that the profiler talking in you, or something else?"

Hotch sighed. "I don't think I've gotten a straight answer since I called over there. Leads me to one of two conclusions—we're being lied to, or even they don't know what's going on. All I know is, I want to know where Reid is and if he's all right before I deal with him."

Rossi nodded. "I'll go with you," he said, the offer not up for debate. "As soon we get this sick bastard processed…"

"Yeah," Hotch said, glaring through the one-way glass at the polygamist leader they'd managed to apprehend. "Why anyone would want to marry off their ten year-olds to someone like that…"

"I don't understand it much myself," Rossi agreed.

----

"Hey, baby girl," Morgan said. "Seriously, have you seen Reid?"

"Not all day," Garcia said, her voice clearly hiding something. "Why? He didn't make it out there?"

"No, he didn't. I mean, this isn't like him---"

"Could be he had mechanical trouble."

"Yeah, but if that were it he'd have called. Hotch's been trying to get him all day, and he won't pick up his phone." Silence loomed over the line a second. "Garcia, he isn't…"

"NO!" the tech shouted, a little too loudly.

"Garcia!"

"I mean, no, I'm sure that's not it," the woman replied hastily. "He's so proud of his chip—he's going for the next one, he told me so himself."

Morgan heaved an involuntary sigh of relief. "Then why isn't he…?"

"Couldn't tell you," Garcia said. "You're on your way home?"

"Yeah, right now. Plane's about to take off. I'm gonna go over to the Navy Yard with Emily, see if I can find out what's going on with Reid."

Inwardly, Garcia gulped. To Morgan, she said, "Oh. Okay. Well, let me know…"

"Always, baby girl. Later."

_Okay, Garcia, don't panic,_ the tech thought as she hit the speaker button. _You've got just under three hours to find them…_ Quick fingers danced over the keyboard, and soon Garcia's monitors were filled with the sight of Abby's Forensics lab at the Navy Yard.

"Hey!" Abby chortled, waving. "Listen, I managed to get a print off your guy's gun, and I started it through AFIS…"

"Oh, good!" Garcia said, the panic beginning to drain a little from her face. "Ah, listen—our _amigos_, they still around?"

"No," Abby replied. "They headed off somewhere…and took Ziva with them."

"What's a Ziva?"

"Not what, _who_," the forensics specialist iterated. "Officer Ziva David, Mossad. She's on loan."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"That she's really, really good at her job?"

"Great. Uh, before I go, gotta say—some of my people are coming by in about three hours to, um, 'find' Reid…"

"Tell me you're joking." Abby's face grew serious.

"Wish I could."

"Terrific! We've got two missing people and now three more who went AWOL about four hours ago…I'll call McGee, see where they are."

"About my colleagues…?"

"I'll think of something. Good thing my boss had to go on an overnight conference."

"Well, that's something."

"Okay, I'll let you know when I know." Abby's screen went black, and she reached for her cell phone. "Come on McGee," she said. "Tell me you're going to pick up your phone…"

----

"McGee."

"McGee, it's Abby. Where are you?!"

"Right now? Crossing into North Carolina. And we're going to have to pull over for the night at about Raleigh. Why?"

Silence loomed. "You're where?!"

"Heading to Miami. Kyle's insistent that it's the best place to start."

"Because of the dead guy?"

"Yes. Hey, could you have that Garcia look up absolutely everything on this Carlos Pena? I'd do it myself, but…"

"Yeah. Listen, we have a problem."

McGee's face began to blanch. "What kind of 'problem'?"

"That FBI guy? His colleagues are 'stopping by' in three hours."

"Oh, crap."

"Yeah! What do we do?!"

"Stall them."

"For two days?"

"No. We'll call if we find out anything. I'm more worried about them getting hold of Gibbs…"

"Oh no. I will throw myself in front of that train wreck first. You guys just focus on figuring out what's going on, and let me deal with the mess."

"Abby, I so owe you one."

"A week's worth of Caf-Pow and lunch should do it. Plus a night out with the Sisters."

"Deal. I'll have Garcia call your cell with the info. Good luck."

"You too."

----

"Thank God that's over," Special Agent Tony DiNozzo said, nearly sprinting for the front doors of the Norfolk naval base. "And he said it would be an overnight…"

"Yeah," an older voice said. "I'm going back to the office."

"More work, Boss? I'm sure Ziva and the Probie had an easy day…"

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs simply shook his head. "I'm going to the office. Have a good night."

"Yeah. Glad we drove separate." Tony had balked at the idea of enduring Gibbs's driving style for the entire distance to Norfolk, and simply drove himself. "Since I'm here, I might as well…"


	15. Come Undone

**Usual disclaimers, plus dark, dark stuff. I suggest playing "Come Undone" by Duran Duran (it's available on YouTube) while reading this.

* * *

**

Oliver sat curled in the corner of his cell, his face buried in the thick drywall that created the sound partition that imprisoned him. The light sound of footsteps and idle chatter began to waft through his ears, and the investigator knew that the 'auction' was about to commence.

Hot tears streamed down Oliver's diamond-shaped face, though his sobs were caught within the soft filter that remained wedged between his teeth. The image of Reid, bravely remaining silent as the sadists that held them began to savagely whip him, burned onto Oliver's conscience. _"You caused this,"_ the guard had spat evilly at his prisoner. _"Now, you think on that…"_

_It's my fault,_ Oliver thought. _It's my fault that he's even mixed up in all of this. If I'd have been more careful with the door, or set the alarm downstairs, or even tried to give him a chance to escape…he wouldn't be suffering like this now. _The tears began to fall harder, and Oliver's head began to hurt. His stomach was revolting against the lack of food inside of it, and his jaw was beginning to set painfully in its unnatural position. Strains of music began to cascade over the open room, and snatches of the melody began to trickle through the thick drywall and plastic of his prison.

'_Come Undone,' _Oliver realized. _But why the music…?_

----

"Set him in that next one," the guard called out as Reid had been brought up. "We'll have to clean out that other one he was in, and I'm not in the mood to right now."

"Okay," Reid's guard replied, shoving the profiler into an empty cubicle.

Reid's whole body ached. His arms were protesting against being held behind his back for so long, and his entire backside screamed in agony every time he tried to sit on the prickly concrete floor or lean against the rough drywall that made up his cell. His ears rang with the memory of Oliver's muffled cries, pleading with their captors to cease their abuse.

"_Now you think on that…"_ the guard had spat as Oliver was shaken like a mixed cocktail. _"You caused this…" _The profiler remembered the fleeting glimpse he'd managed to get of his friend, exposed and bound, sobbing over what had transpired as he'd been led back to his cell.

_Oliver must have tried to fight back, _Reid reasoned. _That's the only thing that makes sense…otherwise, why prove superiority by abusing _me_?_ The effectiveness of the 'balance scale' method of punishment was certainly working, as when Reid had returned from the 'bath' there were no sounds coming from Oliver's cell that he could hear. The sounds of light conversation wafted from the entrance to the giant building, and Reid had managed to see a black sky twinkling with pinpoint stars just out of his grasp as he'd been shoved back into his new cell.

_How long have we been here?_ he wondered. _Surely it's not time for…_

The sound of a familiar song bellowing through the giant hall told him otherwise. As Reid tried to listen to the lyrics to the song, he realized suddenly what the long metal pole in the middle of the room was for. The thought of having to 'perform' on it was enough to make him sick to his stomach, and he hoped feverishly that he would be spared that humiliation due to his 'disability.'

_I can't do it, _he almost chanted soundlessly, trying to calm himself and not succeeding. _I can't…_

----

Raul finished setting up the last of the folding chairs on the wooden floor of the massive barn. It would be a small sale tonight—only fourteen buyers—and the main attraction would be the two young men from Virginia that would be shown last. A small thrill raced up the twenty-eight year-old's spine as he thought of placing the winning bid on the more beautiful of the two, his _querido_, and then taking him to his home a short distance away. Raul had spent most of his free time in the last day making preparations for his purchase, and was pleased with the result.

_Soon, querido, _the young man thought as he wiped his brow, a result of the oppressive humidity that lingered over the whole island. _Soon it will be over, and you will come home with me…_

----

Oliver heard the voices congregate just in front of his cell door, their voices projecting away from him towards something on the main floor. The thin rustle of chairs just barely squeaked through the plastic, but the sounds of footsteps and bright voices talking eagerly about working in America made the investigator's heart break.

"_Can you sing, young man?" _ one buyer asked, a woman.

"_No, Senora," _the younger voice replied in his native Spanish. _"But I work hard, and I am willing to take direction…"_

_This kid has no idea what he's getting into,_ Oliver grimaced, willing himself to keep quiet for Reid's sake. His heart sank further when he could make out a young girl being questioned.

"_How old are you, senorita?" _a male buyer asked.

_Please say nineteen, _Oliver hoped desperately. _Please, say nineteen…maybe then they'll decide you're not 'young' enough…_

"_Not yet sixteen, senor," _the girl replied, her Spanish strong. _"But I sing well, and I worked as a maid for two years…"_

"_A maid? That's interesting," _the man replied, his own Spanish quite good for a non-native speaker. Oliver didn't like the sound of that statement at all.

_No, don't take her, _the investigator silently pleaded with the unseen man doing the questioning. _Please, don't… _Oliver's mind wandered back to the memory of Sasha, and he swallowed a mouthful of bile thickly at the thought of this young girl in the same situation.

The process continued for what felt like hours, with nearly twenty young people happily answering questions from perverted slave buyers posing as prospective employers. As each set of footsteps was led off the main floor, Oliver's heart sank further and further.

_I can't stop them, _he mentally chided himself angrily. _I can't stop this…_

Only moments after the last hopeful young voice left the room, the sound of a familiar one rang out: "My friends, I've saved the best for last." Oliver recognized the voice as that of the dark-haired man who seemed to be the leader of this little 'operation.' "I've come into what is, for me, a personal acquisition—sort of 'revenge' for the troubles of late. I would like now to show off one of my own pieces, and then we'll have our last auction of the night."

A rustle of cloth against the thick plastic door broke Oliver from his self-pitying concentration, and the guard who had assaulted Reid earlier grabbed hold of him. "Now, you're going to do exactly as the boss wants, _esclavo,_" the man hissed maliciously, "or your friend will be sold off to the most heinous buyer in the place. There's a couple who'd love to see what he's made of, if you catch me…"

Oliver gulped, and slowly nodded. The gag was removed from his mouth, and Oliver licked his lips to try and moisten them—they were painfully dry from the combination of the cloth and the lack of water given him. He unwillingly allowed himself to be 'brought out' and placed right next to the tall metal pole in the center of the space. In the back, Oliver could see the black curtain being raised over Reid's cell. The sound of Duran Duran being blared over a loudspeaker and a flashing of white lights managed to catch his friend's attention, and son he could see Reid's warm eyes staring in horror at the sight before him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, one of my prizes," the dark-haired man said. "He comes to me through a transgression by his employer—one for which she will certainly pay for years to come." Leaning towards Oliver, the dark-haired man released the investigator's handcuffs, reaching over to chain one of his wrists to the hateful pole he stood next to. "Now, dance," his captor said with a trace of amusement in his voice.

Oliver choked a little on his own saliva. The thought of being exposed in front of these people was one thing, but this…

"Now, _puto, _or your friend suffers for it," the dark-haired man hissed.

Slowly, Oliver nodded, and the music was reset. As the strains of 'Come Undone' began to play, Oliver's body unwillingly kept time with the music. He forced himself to move slowly, as though he were making love to the cold, inanimate object he were chained to, and he put his free hand to work gliding over his arms, his midsection, and his legs. He moved away from and close to the pole as needed, all the while picturing Reid being forced to do the same or the unbidden thought of little Sasha being forced to do such a thing during her own captivity. Both thoughts pressed Oliver on harder, and soon his captor was hissing at him.

"Show more," he demanded. "Give them a view."

Oliver's eyes flicked back towards his friend, who was standing in shock and shame within his tiny cell. Continuing to keep time with the music, the thirty-one year old managed to turn himself nearly upside-down while grasping the pole for support, and kept his backside trained on the captivated audience. He then righted himself and moved seductively around the pole, turning to face the room full of disgusting people that were greedily lapping up the show. Standing on one leg, Oliver raised the other in a display of agility, and spun himself around the pole again in that stance.

A few catcalls rose from near the doorway, and Oliver shuddered inwardly, trying desperately to hide the shame and humiliation that rose like mercury in an old thermometer. As the last few strains of the song played, Oliver laggardly wrapped his left leg around the pole, pulling himself against the cold steel and tenderly caressing the hateful anchor as the tune ended.

Three women fanned themselves feverishly, their eyes unable to leave certain parts of Oliver's naked frame. A couple of older men whistled, and one called out to Oliver's captor as to a price for him.

"Not for sale, _amigo,_" the dark-haired man said evenly. "But a nice show, eh?"

"I'll say," said the inquisitive man, looking disappointed at losing out on such a 'prize.'

Oliver's wrist ached as he was released from the pole and forced to kneel onto the wooden floor in front of his 'owner.' The handcuffs were replaced, and Oliver was surprised to find that his hands had been bound in front of him instead of in back.

"And now, for our last sale of the evening," Oliver's captor said, waving towards the back. Oliver watched helplessly as he saw Reid being compelled towards the middle of the room, looking ashamed and miserable as he was 'placed' in front the pole.

"Exquisite, isn't he?" his warden remarked. "Nice features, docile, a fine addition to one's collection."

"Three thousand," a man called out, eager to start the 'bidding.'

Reid's eyes grew wide. _That low?_

"You may want to wait on that, _senor,_" the master of ceremonies chuckled. "You see, I haven't finished. Though handsome, and in excellent condition, this one's deaf. And mute."

"Who cares if he talks?" one woman called out. "Four thousand!"

The profiler's eyes grew wide. A sharp jab to the back forced him to stand up straight, showing off more of himself than he wanted. "Keep straight," the guard in back of him grumbled, more to himself than to Reid. "You need to look your best."

"Do I have five thousand?" A hand raised in the back, and the price drove up higher.

"Six!"

"Six fifty!"

"Seven!"

Reid's heart began to sink. He forced himself to look only in front of him, at the faces of the appalling people who would 'purchase' him for pleasure or amusement.

"One hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars," a voice called out, quickly silencing the group. Reid looked back to see the face of the young man who'd fed him earlier, his arm outstretched and his intentions clear.

"One seventy-five, going once…going twice…"

"One ninety!" a man called out.

"Two ten."

"Two forty!"

"Three hundred." The young man was adamant. "This one belongs with me."

The other buyer stood silent for a moment. "I don't think you have the cash," he challenged.

"He does," the dark-haired man said. "Now, either bid or shut up."

"For a broken piece? Three hundred's a little steep. Take him."

"Sold, to Raul Pena. Congratulations."

Reid looked on in horror as the young man—Raul—came up to collect his 'property' from the guard. Oliver's face darkened, and he tried to stand, but his captor shoved him back to the ground, forcing his head to fall flush with the floor.

"Make sure your payments are made in full before leaving, or else the merchandise will be confiscated," the ringleader said as the 'buyers' dispersed. "And congratulations on your new purchases."


	16. Policy of Truth

**The plot now thickens. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Reid nearly tripped over his own feet as he was thrust forward from the main floor into a smaller room off to the side, and he willed himself not to fall flat on his face. The young man who'd 'purchased' him was beaming. "You see, _primo_?" he said to Oliver's captor, who looked on at the younger man with almost a hint of pride. "_Magnifico, _eh?"

"I'll say. It's a shame we couldn't get more for him. But you're happy, and this is a special occasion—your first one and all."

The profiler cringed inwardly. _He's talking as if the buying and selling of human life is a right of passage! _he fumed angrily. _What sort of sick individual does that?!_

"_Si. _But this one, he's special, Darius."

"And for that, something special," the older man said, giving Raul a small box. Reid craned his neck a little, trying to get a look at its contents, but he was firmly held in place by two guards.

"Don't be so nosy, _esclavo,_" one of the men snapped, yanking Reid's hair enough to hurt. "You'll find out, soon enough."

"Oh, _primo,_" Raul said, lifting what looked like a steel band out of the meager box. "You shouldn't have…"

"Every purchase should have one," the dark-haired man—Darius—replied. "See if it fits."

Raul carefully stepped towards his new acquisition, fingering the small band in his long hands. With one deft move, he slid the object around Reid's throat and fastidiously measured the size of the intrusive object as it was pressed near to closing. "Perfect," he breathed as Reid heard a small lock click into place, and as soon as Raul stepped away Reid tried relentlessly to get a look at it.

"Now he's yours, _primo,_" Darius said warmly. "Remember, you owe me."

"_Si,_ Darius. _Gracias."_

Darius smiled a small half-smile. "Take him home. I think he's seen enough, no?"

Raul walked over to a thin wall nearby and selected a long length of silver chain from a rack. Walking back towards Reid, he snapped the business end of it to the metal band now locked onto his captive's throat and tugged gently. "Come on, now. Come with me," Raul said, as though he were talking to a dog or a very small child. The pressure of the band around Reid's neck intensified as Raul continued to tug, compelling him to follow.

Just then there was a deafening crash that sounded from the main floor. The sound of footsteps, fast and sure, thundered towards the cowed and humiliated profiler as a pair of arms slid themselves over his head. "No! You're not taking him!" Oliver shouted, heaving huge breaths and quaking on unsteady legs. "You can't have him…"

Quick, successive blows to Oliver's frame made the investigator cry out in pain, but he refused to acquiesce his position. "You have _no_ say in the matter, _puto,_" Darius snapped. "He's sold, and that's that. Now, let go of him before it falls harder on you."

"No," Oliver choked out. "I won't let you. He's a _person, _like me…"

"What you are is property, _esclavo,_" Darius roared. "Now take your hands off him or else they'll be cut off!"

Reid managed to catch Oliver's wild stare, and silently tried to tell him to follow the order. _It's okay, Oliver,_ he thought. _If I go, I can maybe find us a way out of here…_

"Stop," a gentle voice called out, and all eyes turned to look at Raul, who was standing mere inches from Oliver. Turning his cousin's prize towards him, he asked, "Do you know his name?"

"What?" The question took Oliver by surprise.

"His name. I want to know his name."

"You heard him, _puto,_" Darius said harshly. "Tell him."

Swallowing hard, Oliver complied. "Reid," he said softly. "His name is Reid."

"Reid," Raul said, as though rolling the word across his tongue. "Even his name is beautiful."

"Raul, take him home," Darius said finally as four guards managed to wrestle Oliver's arms off of his cousin's prize. "I've got enough to deal with here."

"Come," Raul said, leading the bound profiler away from his friend and out of the building.

"Oh, one other thing," Darius called out, tossing something small and metallic across the room. Reid knew exactly what it was—the keys that fit his handcuffs. "You'll need those. Now get."

As Reid was led outside into the warm night, he could make out the cries of young voices being loaded onto something—trucks, maybe, or even a boat—voices that once were full of hope, now conveying only anger and fear. _Those poor people,_ he thought sadly as he was ushered into a small house near the main building. _What will become of them?_

---

Gibbs stepped off the elevator, expecting to find his bullpen dark and deserted. It was well after midnight, and the chances of his team being at their desks at that hour when there was no case was rather slim. Seeing as he'd sanded his boat the last three nights in a row, he had decided to stop in and check over the old case files to see if anything needed updating or clearing up. _I oversand that thing and it'll be ruined before it comes out of the basement,_ he thought.

What he didn't expect, however, was the shouting match that was currently taking place in front of McGee's desk.

"What do you mean, 'he's not here'?!" a tall man was asking Abby, dressed perfectly in a three-piece and tie.

"Just that—he's not here," Abby tried to explain. "I don't know where he is…"

"Whoa, whoa, wait," a black man retorted. "First you tell us that he's here, then you tell us he's never been in the building? Which is it?"

"Look, I don't know what McGee told you, but your agent hasn't been here. We've actually been looking for him…"

"He's missing?" an older man said, looking worried.

"Apparently…"

"What do you mean, 'apparently'?!" the man in the suit cried, obviously trying to reign in his temper.

Abby sighed, then spoke. "All I know is, I got a call from a friend saying that your agent and another guy were missing, but we've been working that all day with barely any evidence…"

"You routinely take cases outside the Navy's purview?" a woman asked, one who reminded Gibbs of a cross between Kate and Ziva.

"Abby, what the _hell_ is going on here?!" Gibbs bellowed, breaking the little group's death glare on his forensics tech. "I leave for one day and the place loses its mind?!"

"Ah, no, Gibbs…see, there was this thing…"

"Explain!"

"Well, like I was telling these people, I got a call from a friend, Kyle Parker—you remember, he and his boss helped with that lance corporal a while back…"

"Name sounds vaguely familiar. Continue."

"Well, anyway, he called up last night, said something was definitely hinky at his office, but he needed help to prove it. I called McGee and we went out there."

"Wait—did you say Kyle Parker?" the woman asked, a flicker of recognition gleaming in her eyes.

"You know this guy?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes," the suit replied. "We've worked with him on a number of occasions."

"Continue, Abby."

"Well, McGee and I combed the place, and Kyle was right—his friends were missing, but aside from minute evidence and his gut there was no real proof."

"What kind of 'proof'?" the black man asked, his voice now a decibel or two lower than previously.

"Sea salt, two fingerprints not matching either of the alleged missing, white fibers and a tire print. Really, Gibbs, it was what was left _behind_ that started us thinking things were hinky…" Abby's face was a mess of emotions, none the least of which was fear that her employer would lose his top after all this.

"Which was?!"

"Their coats, for one," the forensics tech replied. "I don't know about Norfolk, but last night was below freezing, Gibbs…"

"Reid wouldn't leave his coat on a night like that," the black man said with certainty. "He'd freeze to death with that thin Nevada blood of his."

"Plus, both their cell phones and their guns were left behind," Abby added. "One of the prints was on them—the Sig Sauer."

"Reid's gun," the man in the suit clarified. "Standard issue."

"Okay, so you processed a little evidence off the books," Gibbs summarized. "How does this lead to a shouting match in my building?!"

"Well, Kyle—my friend—he was all weird about his boss finding out, and then he was worried that that doctor guy's people would lose it…"

"He was right on that count," the older gentleman said. "The question remains, where are they?"

"Your agent or Kyle Parker?" Abby asked.

The whole room summed up their frustration in one word: "Both."

"Well, we're still working on finding your agent and the other guy, Oliver something-or-other," Abby explained. "I've been running what evidence we have all day, and Kyle got some woman named Garcia to help with the other stuff…"

"Wait—_Penelope_ Garcia?" the man in the suit asked.

"Cute, blonde, funky glasses?" the black man inquired.

"Bright colors? Yeah, that's her," Abby replied. The forensics technician noticed several phones being pulled out, and one of them—the one belonging to the black man—seemed to have connected.

"Garcia, is there something you want to _tell_ us?" the man said, his voice sounding not too pleasant. The answer was a bit garbled, but the man's eyes flickered up towards the plasma screen. "Does that work?" he asked.

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "McGee…"

There was no response.

"Abby, where the hell is McGee?!"

"Um…" the raven-haired woman said as she quickly accessed one of the computers and 'magically' activated the screen, showing Garcia's worried face prominently emblazoned on it. "He's…out…"

"_Abby_!" Gibbs bellowed.

"I think I can help with that, sir," Garcia replied through the plasma. "Um, guys, don't get mad, but there's something I need to tell you…"

"We heard, Garcia," the woman replied sharply. "Now, what's going on?"

"Um, Agent McGee and Co. just called—they're in Raleigh, and they're wondering if we found anything else to narrow the location down…"

"What location?" the man in the suit asked, his voice clearly no-nonsense.

"The barn, in Miami," Garcia said, her voice quavering a little. "Carlos Pena's barn."

"Who the hell is Carlos Pena, and what does this have to do with the Navy?!" Gibbs asked, his patience wearing thin.

"Well, he's a dead human trafficker whose print ended up on a chair in Kyle's office," Garcia replied hastily. "As for the Navy, well…I'm not sure it's involved in the slightest."

"Then _why_ are you still working this, Abby?!"

"It's for a friend," the tech retorted stubbornly. "And they'll owe me, but Gibbs, I seriously think something's wrong…"

Gibbs already had his phone out. He was about to give his agent a piece of his mind.

"Where did you say they were headed, Garcia?" the older man asked.

"Miami, Florida," the blonde woman replied. "They should be there tomorrow, all three of them…"

"Three? Agent McGee, Kyle Parker, and who else?"

"Um, an Officer…David? From Mossad?"

Gibbs closed his eyes and tipped his head back. "I'll kill 'em," he murmured softly, rubbing his temples.

"Well, we'll get out of your way, Agent Gibbs," the man in the suit said. To his own people he said, "Call the plane, and tell it to head for Miami."

"Wait," Gibbs said sharply, causing the little group to stop cold. "I'm coming with you."

"You don't…"

"_My_ people are out there looking for _your_ people, and once we find everybody we can sort it out then," Gibbs said, grabbing his coat. "Abby, you keep processing, and tell that woman if she finds anything else to call!"

"Yes, sir," Abby said, watching as the second 'rescue party' took their leave. "And bring everybody back."


	17. Fallen

**Dark, dark, dark, _dark_ stuff, people! Plus usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Home sweet home, _querido,_" Raul cooed as he led Reid into the small house. The entire structure would barely fill a fraction of the grand barn, even with its two-story design and spacious rooms. The profiler noticed a small kitchen with white walls faded by age and dust, and was led up a small staircase so steep that Reid felt as though he were climbing Mt. Ranier.

"Come," his captor said, gently leading his bound prize up the steep stairs. "In here, _amor_. You're probably exhausted, what with the sale and all…"

The mere mention triggered brutal memories that rotated like songs on an iPod set on 'shuffle'. The voices of young men and girls being duped into a life of misery. The sight of Oliver forced to give that humiliating display of sexuality, being whistled and catcalled at as he 'performed' for the amusement of truly depraved individuals. The thousands of dollars being pledged just to have the chance to 'explore' his exposed form through ways and means Reid didn't want to imagine. Oliver's cries and protests as Reid had been led away from his friend and towards who knew what sorts of horror and depravity?

Raul placed a gentle hand on Reid's shoulder. "Come, over here," he said softly, pushing the agent forward towards a giant mahogany four-poster that took up much of the large bedroom. Reid stumbled a little, losing his balance and falling just shy of the plush mattress and bedclothes. Crimson cloth hung limply from the bed frame as Reid's eyes connected with the object, and he tried to keep his breaths shallow as he took in the oxygen that had been knocked out of him.

"Oh, oh," Raul fussed. "Can't have you getting hurt—not so soon."

Reid winced at the implications of that statement. Licking his dry lips, he slowly tried to wriggle himself up onto his knees in an attempt to stand. His skin gave an involuntary shudder as he felt Raul's soft hands reaching underneath his armpits to lift his 'prize' up.

"There, there we go," Raul gently trilled as he 'placed' Reid onto the bed. The brush of silk sheets enveloped Reid's battered skin, and though the fabric was soft and luxurious, it felt like he was being continuously scratched over every inch with fine-grit sandpaper. Gentle hands slowly turned Reid onto his side, and he let out a sigh of amelioration as he felt the hateful metal cuffs being released from his wrists and his arms begin to relax from their stiff position. "That's better, yeah?" his captor whispered into his ear. "It's okay, Reid…it's okay…"

The sound of his name being used by this sick, depraved man as a token of affection made Reid wince. He kept his gaze on the far white wall, now turned a cream color with age. _The first chance I get, I'm going to run for it,_ the agent promised himself. _I'll find Oliver, wherever they put him, and we'll make a run for it…_

Reid's plans were dashed as he felt something cold brush against the nape of his neck. The _click_ of a small lock rang through his ears, and it was all Reid could do to not wince in shame as the sound of metal links clacked together behind his head.

"Can't have you running off, _querido, _no," Raul said, gently running a soft, loving finger around Reid's chin, compelling his captive's eyes to return the dreamy gaze the Hispanic man sent towards the young profiler. "They try, at first…but then they learn. That's what they tell me, anyway." A smile began to form across the man's lips, and Reid silently begged him to stay away from him.

_Please, don't, _he thought desperately. _I can't take it…I can't…_

The profiler's hopes were shattered as Raul drew Reid's long face into a deep, slow kiss—one that Raul expected him to return. Fearing a severe repercussion, or a violent reprisal directed towards Oliver, Reid forced down the rising bile that clawed its way up his throat and unwillingly reciprocated the unwanted display of affection, though not with any feeling other than disgust.

"Oh, no," Raul said, clucking his tongue a little. "No, we'll have to work on that." Reid froze in shame as his keeper's long fingers began to slowly trail down the profiler's chest, midsection, and inner thighs, dancing in time to a music that Raul hummed softly to himself. "But now it's time for bed, _querido._"

Reid tried to swallow, but the pressure of the metal band across his throat made the act difficult. His skin crawled as he was drawn closer to Raul's barely clothed frame, and though he was covered by the thick comforter and soft sheets, the agent shivered as though he were buried in a snowbank in the Arctic Circle. Soft snores wafted up from his captor's chest, allowing Reid to keep time with his uncontrollable shivers and patter of silent tears that fell softly onto the silk pillow his head lay upon.

----

Oliver's feet were in agony. He wished more than anything that he could move, even a fraction of an inch, but the thick cord wrapped tightly around his neck prevented even that much motion.

"The hell were you thinking, _puto_?" Darius had screamed, knocking him to the floor with one solid blow to the solar plexus. Oliver had coughed and spluttered as he fought to catch his breath, but the hail of punches and kicks continued until Oliver spat blood onto the floor and pleaded with his assailant to stop. "You aren't in charge of _anything_ anymore—you exist only to do _exactly_ as you're told!"

"Like hell," Oliver had coughed, hoping the remark would go unnoticed.

"Oh, you want to get cute?" Darius had reached down and grabbed Oliver by the neck, nearly crushing the investigator's windpipe. "Okay, we can get 'cute,' _esclavo…_" The sound of rapid fire Spanish had filled Oliver's ears, and before he could even orient himself he was trying desperately to keep his balance as he was dragged towards a cold, bare room.

"You want to prove something, _puto_? _Bueno. _Let's see if you can withstand this," Darius chortled, motioning towards his lackeys. "String him up," he ordered. "By the neck. We'll see if he can last the night."

Before Oliver could get his feet underneath him, his body was yanked from its half-kneeling position on the floor and forced to stand on the very tips of his toes. Oliver struggled as a wire noose was closed off around his neck, giving the investigator just enough room to stand in one position, give or take a fraction of a centimeter.

"Now, you want to struggle and fight, you can, _esclavo,_" Darius laughed. "But remember—each time you pull, the smaller that noose gets. Pleasant dreams."

Oliver resisted the urge to call out towards his tormentors, to beg them to show compassion towards him. _They don't have any anyway,_ the young man realized.

----

It felt like hours since Oliver had been 'strung up,' but already his legs were threatening to buckle under the pressure of his own body weight. His toes were on fire after being forced to support him for so long, and he longed to rip the hateful cord from his throat, only to remember that his hands had been rebound behind him. Every small movement drew the wire closer to the soft parts of his throat, and Oliver was having a hard time keeping perfectly still.

_How long is he going to do this?_ Oliver wondered, wishing that there were some way to tell time in this frigid little hole. It felt like an air conditioner was turned on full blast, aimed directly at certain parts of his anatomy to further prolong the suffering and heighten the excruciating pain. His stomach lamented vehemently for something to be put inside of it, and his mouth was so dry even his soft palate was beginning to harden a little. _How long does he think he can keep me alive if he does this to me every chance he gets?_

As the first few rays of sunlight began to glimmer just outside the little room, Oliver heard footsteps drawing closer. The investigator forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on his tormentors—a show of submission would only lead them to believe they had broken him, and Oliver was in no mood to submit himself to more humiliation willingly.

"_Buenos dias, esclavo,"_ Darius's strong voice called out, sounding alert and refreshed after a good night's sleep. "Sleep well?"

Oliver settled for glaring murderously at his captor, choosing to pick his battles as they came. _I have to survive this, for Reid's sake,_ he reminded himself. _I'll find him, and get him the hell out of this hellhole…_

"I suspect you're probably a little hungry, eh? After all, all that fighting and standing can wear a person down…" Darius chuckled a bit as he reached for something behind him—a plate filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and some sort of red substance standing in a clump on the side of the plate. "Perhaps you'd like this?"

The investigator's eyes grew to the size of turkey platters, and his stomach reacted violently to the scent of the fresh food that remained just out of Oliver's reach. Bright blue orbs followed the path of the plate, sinking downward as Darius sat the food on the dirty concrete floor.

"Made a little bit of a mess, eh, _esclavo_?" he said as he waved the air around his nose, trying to ward off the smell of human waste. Oliver's kidneys and bladder had reached their breaking point during the night, and the young man was trying not to think about the smell or the feeling of shame that enveloped him as he had relieved himself. Traces of the foul substance lingered on the backs of his thighs, and Oliver hoped desperately to be allowed to clean himself.

"Now, are you going to behave?" Darius asked, as though the question were not rhetorical. Oliver knew there was only one 'right' answer, and he grudgingly nodded his head the fraction of an inch the noose would allow. "Good," his captor said, reaching for the lock on the hateful cord that strung Oliver in his current position. One deft move and the investigator fell to the ground in a heap, falling into the filth he'd been forced to create. "Now, eat."

Oliver began to look at the food, wondering how he was going to eat it with his hands bound behind him as they were. "My hands…" he said softly, hoping the show of submission would be enough to receive a little mercy.

"_Esclavo,_ who says you need hands to eat?"

The bile that was tenuously staying inside Oliver's system threatened to make its escape. The investigator looked at the plate of food, just sitting there on the floor, begging to be eaten. His stomach clawed and dug at him, forcing him towards the life-giving substances on top of the porcelain disc lying in wait. He turned his hateful stare up towards his captor, who was standing over him with his arms folded, waiting for a reaction.

"Fine," Darius said, reaching for the plate. "I guess you're not hungry…"

Within seconds Oliver lunged over the food, cringing in shame as he was compelled to lick up the breakfast; his tongue acting as his pair of hands. His stomach growled terribly, demanding more as Oliver sucked up the last remnants of egg and crumbs of toast. The sweet taste of the red substance, which turned out to be strawberry jam, lingered over his soft palate as he swallowed the last bite.

"Good, very good," Darius said approvingly. "Now, you're going to clean up this mess in here…" Oliver heard the sound of fingers snapping as two guards came in with a bucket and a small cloth "…on your hands and knees. And make sure you clean it good, _puto,_ or you'll eat what's left."

As the guards stood watch, Oliver continued to hunch over as his hands were released and rebound in front of him, allowing him to pick up the tiny cloth and plunge it into the freezing cold, soap filled water. _There has to be a way out of here,_ he thought fiercely as he began to scrub the dirt-filled concrete he knelt on. _There has to be…_


	18. Hate is Just a Four Letter Word

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Kyle woke with a start. He looked around the little room the agents had taken for the night, and turned in every direction. Next to him Agent McGee was fast asleep on top of the bed sheet, his face twitching a little on the thin pillow his head lay on. Nearby, the woman—_Ziva,_ Kyle remembered her saying the name was—didn't seem to move at all. One of her hands was firmly tucked underneath her pillow, and Kyle wondered just what she was hiding under the mass of cotton and feathers.

A quick look at the small alarm clock gave Kyle the time: 3:17 am. Settling back down onto the bed, the tech stared at the popcorn ceiling of the tiny room and watched the glare of headlights make their way along the interstate.

_It'll be all right,_ the young man kept telling himself. _Once we get to Miami, we'll have a place to start. _A part of him wanted to wake his comrades and get back on the road, but both McGee and Ziva had put their foot down on the idea of driving through the night.

"We do not even know that something is wrong, Mr. Parker," Ziva had pointed out. "For all we know, they could simply be back in Washington wondering where all of us are."

McGee had made a more practical point: "If we show up exhausted, and there is trouble, we'll be of no use to them. Six hours, and we're back on the road."

Kyle had had to grudgingly agree. He too was feeling the effects of having gone over twenty-four hours with no sleep, and he had to admit that the NCIS agents' concerns had merit. Still, it didn't help the tech's incessant worry about his friends, and his stomach was winding into knots that were helping to keep him awake. Picking himself up gently from the bed so as not to disturb McGee, Kyle crossed the room and managed to fire up the laptop the round agent had brought with them. Once connected, Kyle began filing through his employer's email accounts, as well as Oliver's and his own. _Something got them to leave in a hurry,_ Kyle mused. _That much I'm sure of…_

As the minutes passed into hours, Kyle managed to read all of his own mail—nothing important—and Oliver's, with no leads as to what caused his friend to vanish. Chase's email, on the other hand, was filled with some strange notes and cryptic letters, some of which began to frighten the tech as he read them.

_Jesus,_ he thought. _I knew we got hate mail, but this?! _Kyle scrolled through a particularly nasty letter that threatened both Chase's life and that of her parents, and another that threatened revenge for managing to send a ruthless murderer and child molester to prison. _No wonder she keeps things secret…probably doesn't want us freaking out at what might happen should we get too close. Good thing her parents aren't alive to see this...  
_

The list of hate mail continued, and some of the 'unknown' files were in different languages. One Kyle recognized as being Cyrillic-based, and another was in some sort of Asian character-style language. _Could be a letter from Mo, or possibly Song Fei,_ he thought, remembering the firm's good friend and occasional lawyer as well as the young woman who had helped them on a particularly difficult case some time ago. Kyle smiled a little as he thought of the two, who had been discreetly seeing each other for several months now, much to Mo's mother's dismay. _There's no way for me to know what's in these, and I can't ask…_

Kyle clicked on a couple of emails from an ex-spy friend of Chase's, the very individual that had drawn her to Miami two weeks ago. The tech quickly scanned the handful of short messages, most of which involved getting some information on an individual or group that had conspired to kill him some weeks back. It was that event that had prompted Chase's trip, and from the reports she'd sent back it sounded like the case was not going well at all.

_That's why I can't tell her about this,_ Kyle insisted to himself. _She's got her hands full, and if this is all for naught then she's none the wiser…_

----

"Must be nice," Agent Gibbs commented as he boarded the plane along with the rest of the BAU team. "My guys hate driving."

"Oh, it gets old, pretty fast," Rossi said, trying to start the discussion with something light. "What can you tell us about your agents in the field?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Look. You're apprehensive of us, we don't know you, and yet somehow here we all are," Rossi said evenly. "We just want to find our agent."

Gibbs nodded slightly. "McGee's got degrees in computers from MIT and biomedical engineering from Johns Hopkins. He's young, but effective, and doesn't give up. Ziva's on loan from Mossad—don't ask—and you can take that for what it's worth."

"So she's, ah, 'well-trained'?" Emily asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

The implication was not lost on the group of profilers in the slightest. "Now," Gibbs said, "what can you tell me about Kyle Parker?"

"28 years old, investigative computer technician for a very small firm in Virginia," Hotch supplied.

"There's only one other person better at the job than he is, and she works for us," Morgan added.

"How'd they manage to find you guys? Can't imagine there's a lot of call for profiling in their work."

"There was a case on the campus of the local college there," Emily said. "She was running security for the school at the time, and called us in."

"She?"

"Chase Davis, 28, Kyle's employer. Also his best friend."

Gibbs looked at the little group with renewed interest. "Now _that_ name I've heard before…"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Had to do with counterfeit money and a lance corporal doing time in Leavenworth as we speak. She, ah, 'helped' our investigation."

"That's not all she does," Rossi said. "She's got a skill set I've never seen before in the private sector, if we're being honest."

"Like what?"

Rossi shook his head. "If you meet her again, you'll understand. I'd swear she's got military training, but she's got no record of service."

"Garcia says most of her files are well-buried," Morgan added. "We tried looking into her and came up with damn near nothing. If we hadn't worked with her before, we'd have thought she was CIA or something."

"And this Parker, he's good?"

"The best. And that's considering."

"Considering what?"

"He's deaf," Hotch said. "As a post."

"Good God," Gibbs cried, exasperated. "Well, what about this other guy—Oliver…whatever?"

"Oliver Lawrence, 31," Emily began. "Spent nine years in counterterrorism over at the FBI, then left to go work with Chase Davis."

"He'd leave the Bureau for that? Why?"

"There was a case some time ago…it went bad for him. Decided he needed a new start, and she and Kyle Parker offered him one."

"How bad?"

"His sister was killed."

Gibbs thought on that for a long moment. "Really."

"We caught the guy, Agent Gibbs. There was no need for that."

Gibbs looked at Rossi as if the man were psychic. "You think you know?"

"It's what I do. What _we_ do."

Gibbs nodded curtly, wondering just what his agents had gotten themselves into. He mentally scheduled a long chat with Abby and McGee for some time after this little caper was resolved. "And this agent of yours? Reid?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid, 27, been with the BAU for five years," a voice called out over the open laptop. "Holds three doctorates, two bachelor's degrees, and is working on several more. Plus, he's a hell of a statistician."

"Anything new, Garcia?"

"Did some digging into our dead sicko," the blonde reported. "Carlos Pena was suspected of running a major trafficking ring about six years ago just outside of Miami. It took two years of undercover work and the assistance of several agencies to finally get proof of his operation—he was trafficking people."

"People? Garcia, are you sure?" Morgan asked.

"That's what's in the official FBI files, as well as some personal files kept by a certain investigative team we know and love."

"How did this Davis woman get involved in this?" Gibbs asked.

"Ah, well, that part it doesn't say, but she's listed in the Bureau's report as being somehow integral to the case. After that, can't say."

"Can't, or won't?"

Garcia glared through the screen. "Hey, I might try a few things every now and again, but lying to colleagues isn't one of them—well, usually. There's no listing as to how she helped or why, not in the official report or in her private files."

"So we'd have to ask her," Hotch said, his no-nonsense tone clearly evident.

"Which we can't do," Garcia said.

"Why not?" Emily asked. "If this has something to do with Oliver, she'll want to know…"

"Apparently she's working some big case—Kyle's afraid she might, ah, 'flip out' if we're worried over nothing…"

"I don't care," Hotch said. "Find her."

"Oh-kay," Garcia said. "Oh, before I forget, here's the location of where the barn was that Pena worked out of." The tech rattled off a set of coordinates, which a few members of the team took down in small notebooks.

"Was, Garcia?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah. The place was destroyed by fire the day of the raid. I'm still looking into more background on him, and what happened. You'll know more when I know more." With that, the laptop screen instantly went blank.

"First stop is the Bureau office in Miami," Hotch said. "Someone there should still know about the case."

"I'll go," Emily said.

"I'll join you," Rossi added.

"That leaves the site," Gibbs said. "And we know we'll have help coming…"

"I want to see this," Hotch said flatly.

"Me too," Morgan said. "Someone somewhere knows what went on, and if it involves Reid and Oliver now."

"Okay, then," Gibbs said simply. "Now, how do you make that thing talk to people?" he asked, pointing to the computer.

"Why?"

"Cause I want to talk to my forensics tech and my ME," Gibbs said plainly, a note of contention in his voice. "If there's any more Abby can give us, so much the better. As for this Pena, if there's a body, Ducky can find it, or at least look over the records."

"Ducky?" Emily asked.

"Don't ask."


	19. Splish Splash

**Usual disclaimers, plus some disturbing stuff in this chap. Be warned.**

* * *

The first rays of sunlight the following morning broke over a sad little scene—the sight of two young men curled up inside a thick red comforter and white sheets. One of the men was still asleep and dreaming, while the other lay wide-eyed and fearful, his long fingers desperately tugging on a silver chain that connected him to a thick bar in the headboard.

_Come on, come on, come on,_ Reid thought, silently begging the restraint to snap in his fingers and break. _How strong can the wood on this thing be?_

The profiler held his breath as he felt the brush of skin rubbing against his own naked frame, fearing he'd be caught. A few soft mumbles rose from Raul's lips, and Reid let out his breath slowly when his captor turned over and fell back to sleep. Nearly frantic, Reid took hold of the chain with both hands and began to pull as hard as he could, his oxygen intake growing more rapid with every sharp _thunk_ of metal bolt driving against solid wood. _Sooner or later he'll wake up…and then what?_

Suddenly Reid felt a hand lazily drifting down his bare back, soft fingertips tracing a figure-eight chain around each of the vertebrae that made up his back. The fingers leisurely made their way towards the small of Reid's back, and the young doctor held his breath as those fingers began to explore more southern parts of that area.

"Mmm," Raul murmured. "Like velvet." Reaching an arm over his 'prize's' thin frame, he gently tucked his hand under Reid's chin and drew the profiler's face closer to his. "Sleep well, _querido?_"

Reid swallowed thickly and then slowly nodded his head. In truth, he hadn't slept a wink. The prone captive had been too frightened to even close his eyes for fear that Raul might wake up and decide to 'try' something in the middle of the night. He felt extremely weak from the lack of food and rest, but struggled to look as though he was refreshed and somewhat content in his surroundings.

"Lucky day, _amor,_" Raul said. "No work for me. Means I can focus on you, and your training."

Reid didn't like the sound of that. However, he managed to try and put on his best 'interested' face, settling for 'slightly curious.' His stomach growled loudly, and Raul began to smile.

"First, though, we'll clean you up and have breakfast, _si?_ Would you like to eat, _querido_?" Reid noticed that his captor made sure to look at him as he spoke, taking the time to form his words carefully.

_So far, the 'deaf act' is working, _the profiler thought. _Now if I can only use it to my advantage… _He tried to put on a brave, seductive smile as he meekly nodded his head in the affirmative. _Yes, breakfast would be nice…at least it'll give me something to keep my strength up…_

Raul traced his index finger across Reid's chin and then let the younger man's head drop. "_Bueno,_" he said. "I'll go and get things ready, and then we'll make you presentable."

As the older man left, tossing a shy glance back at his 'prize,' Reid forced himself to remain looking as though he were anticipating his captor's plans for him. In reality, Reid wanted more than anything to break his bonds and run as far away as he could, as fast as he could—and he was pretty sure he could outrun a leopard at this point. Desperate, he grabbed hold of the long chain that anchored him to the bed and began pulling on it harder than ever, hoping against all hope that the wood had been struck enough to weaken the crossbar and sever in two, allowing him to slip the chain out. Reid had tried pulling the metal collar off of his neck during the night, but the band was fitted so snugly around his throat that he was barely able to wedge a finger between the hateful device and his Adam's apple. Every tug and pull had to be timed carefully, and when Reid heard the sound of bathwater being drawn he began to fight with the restraint with all his might—which, given his weakened state, wasn't very much.

"Impatient thing, aren't you?" Raul said as he stepped back into the bedroom, noticing his 'prize' was breathing labouredly and had started to work up a bit of a sweat. "Patience, _querido._ Patience." The man plucked a small key from a ring hanging on a nail across the room from where Reid lay, and the sound of it releasing the chain attached to the metal collar was music to the profiler's ears.

"Come," Raul said shyly, taking Reid by the wrist. Reid struggled to get his feet underneath him—he'd lost feeling in them during the night from Raul's legs lying on top of them—and took slow, delicate steps towards his captor. Though the younger man wanted desperately to try and run, he also knew that in his condition he wouldn't manage to get very far before he was recaptured and possibly 'punished' for the attempt.

_As soon as I've eaten,_ Reid promised himself. _As soon as there's something in me other than fear and dread, I can try and escape._

The walk to the spacious bathroom was only a few feet, but to Reid it seemed like an eternity. Cold tile met with the bare soles of his feet, and the profiler became extremely self-conscious as he'd had to leave the privacy-granting cover of the bedclothes behind. The scent of bath salt weighed heavily in the air, hanging like a wet towel over a shower rod. Reid stared at the enormous bathtub, filled with hot water bubbling merrily from tiny jets built into the basin.

"Go on," Raul encouraged, placing his hand around Reid's ankle and lifting his leg. "Get in."

Gingerly, Reid picked up his feet and obeyed, grateful to have the dense cloud of soap bubbles available to hide his nakedness in. The warm water felt like heaven against his cold, dry, abused flesh, and the heat from the liquid began to warm the tips of his toes and the recesses of his legs and shoulders. Just as soon as Reid settled into the tub, however, he caught the motion of something being tossed onto the floor, and before he knew it Raul was plunging a foot inside the spacious tub, settling himself in a comfortable position straight across from his 'prize.'

"Now, _querido,_" the older man said, "let's get you cleaned up." Raul plucked a white washcloth from a small towel bar bolted against the wall and dipped it into the warm water, applying a vigorous lather to the craggy linen in his hand. Reid wanted to cry out in shame as the cloth worked its way between his toes, over his legs, and up into more personal areas of his makeup. Unconsciously, the profiler tried to push the intruding hand away, only to have it batted to one side. "You'll have your turn, _mi amor,_" Raul cooed softly as the white cloth worked its way up Reid's midsection and chest. "All in time."

The thought of being compelled to 'clean' his captor made Reid sick to his stomach. His intestines protested the lack of food in them, and he knew that if he couldn't get to a toilet soon there would be worse problems than what lie ahead for him in this giant water receptacle he now sat inside. The young doctor turned pleading eyes towards his tormentor, silently begging him to stop.

_Well, if I'm going to be 'deaf,' I might as well start talking like it, _Reid thought. Picking his right hand up slightly out of the water, he made the sign for the letter 'T' and shook it from side to side, hoping Raul would notice.

"What is it, _querido?_" his captor asked, staring at Reid's barely moving hand. "What are you trying to say?"

Reid pointed at the gleaming white porcelain stool that sat only about three feet away from the tub, hoping his eyes were sending the right message. _Please,_ he thought desperately. _I can't hold it much longer…_

"Oh," Raul said quickly, and hurried out of the tub. He beckoned Reid out, standing before the profiler in all his natural glory. "Hurry up, then."

_No…dear God…you're not…_ Reid's heart sank as he realized what Raul was asking him to do. _Not in front of…please, give me that much dignity…_

"Come on, then," Raul said, looking impatient. "Otherwise it's back in the tub. You're still not clean."

Shamefaced, Reid carefully lifted himself out of the tub, his arms aching from the prolonged period of time they had been bound behind his back previously. After what seemed like hours he succeeded in standing in front of the commode and blushed in disgrace as he managed to finally relieve himself.

"There, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Raul chided gently, placing his long hands on Reid's back and steering the quaking man towards the bathtub. The jets were still bubbling merrily, and the thick cloud of bubbles was refreshed as Raul poured in another capful of the sudsy bath liquid. "Now, where were we?"

The smile on his captor's face as he 'cleaned' his prize made Reid nauseous. Every time he tried to shy away from Raul's intrusive hands and duck the white washcloth that covered his exploring fingers, he had his attempts thwarted by Raul's quick reflexes and sheer strength. "Hmm," the man smiled, staring at Reid's medium length hair. "We'll have to see about that." Raul beckoned Reid forward, and managed to turn his 'slave' around in the tub so that the younger man was sitting right between his 'master's' widespread legs. The feeling of certain 'parts' rubbing against his back mortified Reid, but he resolved to remain quiet at all costs. _I can't afford to blow my cover now,_ he determined stubbornly. The scent of coconut wafted up through Reid's nostrils, and soon he felt Raul's hands pressing roughly on his scalp, working their way through the tangled strands of hair that hung from the profiler's head.

"That's better," Raul said finally, after ducking Reid forcibly into the water several times to rinse out the soap. "Now, _querido,_ it's time you show me what you've learned." He picked up the white washcloth and loaded it with thick lather, then gently pressed the prepared item into Reid's hand. "Wash me," he commanded, smiling a little as he took in the expression Reid's face. "Just like I've done for you."

Quaking in shame, but fearing reprisal, Reid submitted to his captor's demand. He tried to work as quickly as possible, but was forced to repeat the process until Raul was satisfied. The younger man closed his eyes during certain points, and while Raul thought it was out of some amorous feeling Reid had for him, the truth was Reid was too ashamed and embarrassed to watch himself be compelled to put his hands in certain places.

"I'll wash my own hair, _querido,_ Raul said as soon as the last bit of skin was wiped clean. "Don't want you getting ideas." Once he'd finished, Raul stood Reid up and walked him out of the tub, dried him off with a thick towel, and then led him back to the bedroom where his chain was replaced onto the metal band that encapsulated his neck.

"Give me a few minutes, and I'll have breakfast ready," the older man said, his voice light and pleased. He tossed on a thick green robe and casually ambled downstairs towards the kitchen area. Within a few minutes Reid could smell the heavy scent of bacon frying in a pan and could hear something being beaten in a glass container.

_Please, dear God, don't let him try to 'feed' me, _the profiler thought feverishly, remembering the incident in the cubicle he'd been imprisoned in. _Let him have me do it myself…_


	20. Words Get in the Way

**Okay, people, the end of this chapter is very very descriptive, very very dark and _not_ for the squeamish or faint of heart. Read with caution. **

**Usual disclaimers.**

**

* * *

**

"McGee, it's this way."

"No, Ziva, it's not," the agent argued. "That Garcia said it was on a little island just off the coast, and the coast is _this_ way!"

"And you would know this…how?"

McGee gave a mischievous smile. "Spring Break."

Ziva's eyes widened. "I would not have guessed." Just as quickly, she said, "McGee---"

"What?!"

"There's a…"

The car rolled over something large and inanimate with a loud _thud_, nearly knocking Kyle Parker out of the backseat. –What the hell was that?!— he signed angrily, his fingers physically smarting as he hit his hands together while he spoke. When all he got was a blank stare from his compatriots, he grabbed his notepad and scrawled the message out on it, thrusting it forward.

"We don't know," Ziva said, shrugging her shoulders. "But it was not alive."

_Are you sure?!_

"Very. It looked a little like an old car part—perhaps a scarf?"

"Muffler, Ziva. And your guess is as good as mine," McGee gently corrected. "Now, about this barn…"

Ziva took Kyle's notepad and wrote the following question: _this Garcia, what is her number?_

Kyle took Ziva's phone and punched it in. "Oracle of all knowledge, Penelope Garcia," the tech chirped. "Speak and be amazed!"

"Miss Garcia, my name is…"

"Ziva David, Mossad officer and currently AWOL from the NCIS offices at the Navy Yard."

"Yes…how did you…?"

"Oracle of all knowledge, there, my dear Ziva. Now, you had a question?"

"Yes. We are looking for this little barn you mentioned, and it is nowhere to be seen. Could you…"

"Give you directions? Sure. Just turn left on the next corner and follow it to the coast, make a left and a right and you'll find a little floating bridge. Cross that and you're there. The road is St. Michelina Way, and you'll see a bunch of people milling around—can't miss 'em."

"People? I thought this was a deserted…."

"Ah, Ziva?" McGee said, snapping the officer's train of thought. The agent had been following Garcia's directions—Ziva had put her phone on speaker—and he saw just what the computer technician was referring to.

"Yes, McGee, what is it?"

"I, uh, think we're in big trouble."

----

Hotch, Morgan and Gibbs had spent the better part of four hours going over the old site, only to come up with next to nothing. The 'barn' had burned completely to the ground, and what remained had been sitting idle for several years at least. There were remnants of what looked like outer building foundations as well, and the lead agents of both teams were perusing one of these smaller satellites when the sound of an engine running made them look up.

"Bout time," Gibbs called out as he saw the Porsche pull in, its windows down.

"Boss, I can explain…"

"Not now, McGee. Grab your gear and start processing that barn site. Ziva, you're with us."

"Uh, Gibbs?"

The elder agent gave a withering look. "What?"

"What about Kyle Parker?"

"Who?"

Ziva pointed to the man in question, who was slowly taking in the site of the original trafficking rings base of operations. He was shooting several photographs with a small camera, and it seemed to both of the NCIS agents that he was devising ways to identify each shot for court purposes.

"Go take over for him," Gibbs said quickly. "We need a chat."

"We?"

The man in the neat three-piece suit stepped forward. "Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, FBI."

"Oh, yes," Ziva replied. "The doctor's boss." The woman quickly made her introductions and then ran over to grab Kyle's camera from his hand, deftly pointing towards the leaders of both teams and making the simple sign for 'talk.'

_Well, here goes nothing,_ Kyle thought as he walked over towards Hotch and this relative stranger standing next to him—the man Kyle assumed was McGee and Abby's boss. He waved his hello and then reached for his notepad. He knew his voice would be terrible, and he needed these men to understand him, for Reid and Oliver's sake. To his surprise, the older man began to talk.

--You want to explain why you dragged my agents into this caper of yours?— he saw quick fingers sign. Kyle knew the man was speaking for Hotch's benefit as well, as he saw the man's lips moving.

--Yes. Something's happened to them, Hotch,-- he said, looking at the agent he had come to know and trust. –I can't explain it, not like you would want me to, but…something's wrong. _Really _wrong."

--Explain.—

Kyle launched into the story he'd told Abby—the dice game, him going for food, the van in back of the office, the open door, and the scant bit of evidence that he, Abby and McGee had found. –Neither Oliver nor Reid would ever leave their coats behind on a night like that, especially Reid, being from warm weather. Oliver might do that if it were important, because Michiganders can be crazy sometimes, but not Reid. Plus, they left their cell phones and their weapons. Neither of them would do that, _never._—

--So why my team?— the older man asked.

--I'd met Abby through my employer once, on a case involving a lance corporal. She was very thorough, and she could talk to me. It seems she told you about me, sir.—

--She did.—

--Anyway, I knew if there was anything to prove me right or wrong, she could find it. I have a little forensics training, but nothing like we needed both at the time and right now. She came, and brought Agent McGee with her…for help, I guess.—

--She told me.—

"Kyle, how long have Reid and Oliver been missing?" Hotch asked. It helped the agent that there was someone available to translate for him—usually he relied on Oliver or Chase, and in a pinch, Reid.

--Since the night before last. I got back to the office at about eight-thirty, and they were gone.—

--And you're sure they didn't just leave on their own?—

Kyle looked at Hotch. –Did you call Reid in to work that night?—

Hotch shook his head. "We didn't have to leave until the next day for Utah. We found out about it at ten that morning."

--Then no. I'm sure they didn't. We don't have any cases either, and Oliver would've left a note or something. It's our thing.—

"We know their cars are still in Virginia," Hotch reasoned. "If they were planning a trip of some kind, they'd at least need that."

"Or a rental agreement."

"Which Garcia hasn't found, for either of them."

--I told you it was weird.—

"And Chase doesn't know?" Hotch asked.

Kyle shook his head vehemently. –No. And don't tell her. She doesn't need this too, not after dealing with Mike.—

--Who's 'Mike'?—

--Old friend of hers in Miami. He can be a pain in the ass, but he called her for a job and she's been down here for two weeks.—

"Kyle, we're going to have to call her," Hotch said, hoping his face was giving the same message his no-nonsense voice usually did. "Garcia ran over the file on the owner of this little island, and there's a lot of blank gaps we need filled in if we're going to find Reid and Oliver."

--Maybe I can help? I mean, I've been keeping her records for years…-- The look in the technician's eyes pleaded with the agents not to call his employer—not unless it was absolutely necessary, anyway. –I'll try my best, and I've already unearthed some strange emails I sent to Garcia for analysis and translation.—

"You think there's something in there?"

Kyle shrugged. –Worth a try.—

----

Oliver wanted to die. Or better, he wanted to kill his tormentors and _then_ die—at least then the shame and humiliation would be over.

It had taken three hours to clean the concrete floor to Darius's standards, and that 'cleaning' had involved just a little bit of tongue action. Oliver had gagged and choked as the thick taste of soap and dirt and traces of waste had been forced into his mouth by way of his lips and teeth. At first he'd refused to humiliate himself further, but several sharp blows and the promise of an 'accident' befalling Reid made Oliver acquiesce.

"Good, very good, _esclavo_," Darius said as he re-entered the room, taking particular note of the concrete. "Now, have you learned anything?"

_That you're a sadistic asshole who gets off on seeing other people suffer? _the investigator thought. Aloud, however, he said, "Yes. I shouldn't make a mess."

"_Bueno._ Now, come with me," Oliver's captor said, beckoning him forward. There's another little chore I need you to do…

----

Reid was led downstairs, through the small kitchen and into the living room, where he was walked towards a plush green couch. "Sit," his love-smitten warden said. "I'll get the food." As Reid sat down, he watched Raul chain his 'leash' to an anchor point near a large glass coffee table—one that was spattered with dust and other stain particles.

_Maybe I can break the glass,_ Reid thought, having given the object the once over. _It looks thin enough…_ Several attempts later, however, the flat of the table remained as solid as ever, and Reid's hands and feet were sore from colliding with the thick lead crystal that constructed the piece. _Damn it! _he cried silently. _What now?!_

Just then Raul came in, holding a large silver-handled tray in his hands. The smell of bread and eggs floated through Reid's nostrils, as well as the thin, sharp smell of oranges. As his captor sat the tray down, the agent saw it was laden with more food than Reid had seen in a week: scrambled eggs with cheese, toast, fresh orange slices and juice, strawberries, small sections of Belgian waffle in a bowl next to a pot of thick maple syrup, and a bowl of banana slices.

"I don't know what you like, _querido,_" Raul said kindly. "So I hope you like this…"

Reid's eyes were the size of platters. His stomach was threatening to leap out of his body, and it took great effort to resist grabbing the entire tray and downing the contents in one bite.

"Go ahead, _querido,_ take what you want," the older man said, gesturing towards the edible spread. Reid gingerly picked up a small plate and put some of the eggs and toast on it. He searched for a fork, but all he could find was a flimsy plastic variety that had been laid out on the serving tray as if meant for him. "Can't have you getting ideas," Raul said with a small smile as Reid examined the thin tines of the fork.

_This guy isn't as slow or stupid as he seems,_ Reid thought. _He's taken precautions, meaning he's dealt with 'slaves' before…and he knows what I might try._

Raul helped himself to some of the eggs and a section of waffle, pouring syrup on the porous item. After arranging his food in just the way he liked, he took his metal fork and speared a bite of the waffle, then lifted it towards Reid's lips. "Here, _querido,_" he said. "Have a taste."

Not wanting to upset Raul, Reid accepted the bite. He was surprised to discover that it was quite good, and nodded to show his approval.

"_Bueno,_ no? I used to be the cook for my father, and then for my cousin," Raul said, making sure to speak slowly and keep Reid's eye contact. "But now he has someone who cooks for him. Apparently he's quite good."

Reid immediately thought of Oliver. He remembered his friend's passion for cooking and good food.

"Was a chef, worked in some good restaraunts. Now he works for Darius, and he's pleased. Doesn't mind our business, either. And now with that new _puto_ to clean for him, he's all set."

_This Darius doesn't seem to make purchases for sex, then, _Reid realized. _More practical…but it Oliver any better off than I am?_

"Me, on the other hand, now I liked you the minute I saw you in that van," Raul continued, contentedly eating his breakfast as though nothing were out of the ordinary. "_Mi familia,_ they wondered about me, but then look at what we do. It's not like my _papi_ didn't take a few off the shelf for his own use, and it made for more merchandise later."

The thought of young girls being forced to have sex with their captor with the secondary intention of impregnating them turned Reid's stomach. It took every bit of willpower he had to not spit out the mouthful of toast and egg that currently resided against his soft palate. _I didn't hear that,_ he chanted quickly to himself. _I didn't hear that…I didn't hear that…_

"My _mami,_ she always knew something wasn't right with me, _querido,_ but she wanted me to be happy. I think maybe she brought you to Darius, so I could find you." Raul sat his empty plate onto the glass table and leaned closer to his unclad 'prize.' "I think maybe we should celebrate."

_Oh God. What does _that _mean?_

Raul took the mostly empty plate from Reid's hands, and leaned overtop of the young agent, pulling Reid flat on his backside across the long davenport. The sound of the chain rattling across the stiff carpet resounded in Reid's ears, and soon his breathing was impeded by the weight of his captor lying flush against his chest. The agent closed his eyes in shame as he felt several soft kisses work their way around his scalp and down his face, and greedy hands rubbed themselves against his chest and midsection. A warm sensation thrilled down the center of Reid's stomach, and he cracked one eye open to see Raul's tongue tracing a slow, lazy line onto the sensitive skin. As that tongue worked itself into Reid's belly button, lapping the small divot with tenderness and grace, Reid cringed and wriggled a little to try and divert his captor from where his exploring mouth would try to discover next.

"Impatient thing, aren't you?" Raul said. "All in time, _querido. _All in time." He took his time working over the soft parts of his 'prize': the lower stomach, the hips, and further into the groin. Raul gently placed his hands along his captive's inner thighs, relishing the soft skin that dwelled there, and leaned his head in for a more personal view of an endowed area.

The tears Reid had bottled up were now flowing freely down his cheeks, and as soon as that personal area had been impeded on he heard choked sobs being emitted from his own throat. He wanted nothing more than to throw off the violating entity that threatened to deflower him, but he remembered Oliver, still trapped in the hellhole not more than several hundred yards away. _What if this guy hurts him if I don't cooperate?_ he wondered, desperately afraid for his friend.

Raul slowly worked his tongue around the shaft of his 'prize', wanting to save the best part for last. He'd had encounters with other men, but nothing quite so satisfying as this. Then, he'd had to play by their rules. Now, he could 'teach' his slave to please him in any manner he liked, and his _querido_ would have to obey. Plus, there was something about this young man that Raul couldn't get enough of, and there was a warm flutter in his stomach every time he laid eyes on his new acquisition. Finally the older man lifted his head and plunged it downward, connecting with his target in one deft move. As he worked his mouth up and down the shaft, he heard his _querido's_ soft cries and fought against the younger man writhing underneath his weight.

Reid tried to wriggle out of Raul's grip, hoping to dislodge him off of his groin and maybe knock him into the glass table, rendering the older man unconscious. With each bucking motion of his hips from side to side, Raul remained firm, wrestling Reid into submission as his lips explored a part of Reid's makeup that was reserved only for the young agent. Reid's sobs grew louder, and before he could stop himself the words slipped out, loudly and clearly: "Stop! Please, stop!"

The utterance of those three words made Raul pick his head up in surprise. The dark eyes that usually showed kindness now were blazing in perplexity and anger.

_Oh, no,_ Reid thought, his heart racing as Raul lifted himself to a sitting position. _What have I done?_


	21. Found Out About You

**The plot really thickens. Some dark stuff--be warned. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"What did you say?" Raul demanded, his voice even but thick with anger.

Reid knew his delicate ruse was destroyed. He remained silent, trying instead to use his eyes to plead his tormentor for mercy.

"I know you hear as well as I do, _esclavo,_" Raul snapped. The older man straddled Reid's hips and sat on him, forcing the agent to remain pinned on top of the davenport. "Now, tell me what you said, or I arrange to have you sold to our buyer in Thailand…_tonight._"

"Please, stop," Reid spluttered quickly, knowing that he'd never survive the sex trade in certain parts of Asia. "Please, I can't…"

"Oh, you _will, puto,_" Raul said menacingly. "And we'll start back up as soon as we've had a little chat." Picking himself up off of Reid's frame, the angry man stormed up the stairs, and Reid could hear him rummaging through some sort of drawer or closet box. The sounds of metal crashing against itself and the _clinks_ of what might be some form of torture device rang through Reid's ears, and he immediately leapt up from the sofa and tried to run, forgetting that he was still chained to the anchor point in the floor. The jerk of the solid chain connected to the steel band encircling his throat made Reid choke and cough violently as he fell in a heap on the stiff carpet.

"Thought you were going somewhere, _esclavo_?" Raul called out as soon as Reid's limbs hit the floor with a deafening _thud._ "You forget—I've been dealing with merchandise for _years. _You thought you'd escape that easy?" As the young profiler tried to pick up his head and reorient himself, he could barely make out Raul's now-clothed form striding towards him. The thin sound of something metal jangled close to his ears, and Reid instinctively tried to hide his hands behind his back.

"Oh, no, _esclavo_, you put them out here," Raul ordered. "Right now, or else."

The 'or else' was not something Reid could think about. Unwillingly, he brought his hands forward, and watched helplessly as they were bound in the hateful pair of handcuffs that had been taken from Oliver's belt not two days ago. A second pair was snugly fit around his ankles, and Raul nearly dislocated his captive's shoulder as he wrenched the younger man off the floor and threw him back onto the davenport.

"Now, Reid—if that _is_ really your name," Raul spat.

Reid sighed. "It is," he said softly.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't."

"_Toromierda! _Why did you lie?!" Raul screamed, pulling something out of his belt. Reid's eyes were locked on the sight of the four-inch blade that his captor now brandished, the metal object working its way dangerously close to his throat.

"Darius assumed I was deaf. I didn't see a reason to disabuse him of the notion."

"Aha," Raul chortled. "You were hoping to stay close. To your friend, perhaps?"

"Y-yes."

"_Bueno. _It worked."

Reid's eyes searched the incensed face now inches from his own. Raul pulled up one of the sturdy kitchen chairs and sat in it backwards, his hands ceaselessly fingering the long knife he held in his hand.

"I should punish you. Maybe beat you to within an inch of your life, like Darius does to disobedient _esclavos_."

"No, please--"

"I should maybe sell you off; show you the true meaning of 'merchandise'." Raul continued dressing Reid down with his fiery gaze, making the agent sick with worry as to what might happen next. "But no, _querido,_ I think you and me are going to have a hell of a 'good time' upstairs, and you're going to perform like you've never done for anyone else. Otherwise, I can make life interesting for you—and your friend over there, the bitch's _amigo._ Understand me?"

The thought of being sold off to some worse fate, coupled with Oliver being savagely beaten or abused as he himself had been made Reid instantly nod his head in agreement.

"First, though, you and me are going to have a talk with my _primo,_" Raul said. "I'm sure he'd appreciate knowing he has merchandise that would lie and steal from him."

"Oliver didn't…" The sentence barely made its way out of Reid's mouth before it stung from a vicious backhand, causing his lip to split open.

"That _puto_ knew damn well about you, and allowed the sale to take place. He stole millions from Darius. Millions!"

"But…" Reid's mind was working overtime, and he finally hit on something useful. "But, if he'd sold me to the other buyer, I wouldn't be here to serve you now." The deep, searing breaths flaring from Raul's nostrils were the only thing Reid heard as the older man ran that thought through his mind. "W-would you have wanted that?"

"Hmmph," Raul snorted. "At this point you'll say anything."

_Shit,_ Reid thought fearfully. _He's almost as good a profiler as I am!_

"You stay there and don't move," Raul said icily, leaving Reid bound like a trussed turkey on Thanksgiving. "I'll be back."

----

Oliver took the small white cloth and continued scrubbing the kitchen floor as though he were Cinderella with no maid's outfit to hide in. Darius seemed to like the idea of his 'scullery maid' being completely nude, and he wished that he could have something to at least cover his backside with. The black and white tile began to gleam in the midday sun, and Oliver thought longingly of his own kitchen back in Campbell. _New flooring, new stove, new microwave, new damn near everything thanks to Chase's last try at cooking,_ he mused. _And now I'm cleaning someone else's kitchen on my bare hands and knees…_

Suddenly the sound of loud voices began echoing through the grand house, and Oliver dared to lift himself higher on his knees for a look. There was no escaping the kitchen—the doors were bolted on the outside and there were guards present—but perhaps he could use the argument to his advantage.

"What do you mean, he talks?!"

"I'm telling you, _primo,_ he can hear as well as you or I can. That _puto_ of yours lied to us."

"So did yours, Raul."

"And I'll deal with that. But I think, perhaps, we should make those _putos_ talk a little—I mean, if they were hiding that, then who knows what else…"

"You make a good point, _primo._ What else, indeed…" The sound of fast footsteps reverberated from the marble tile, and Oliver quickly tried to hide himself behind a large black island that stood in the middle of the room. He reached up for a weapon of some kind, but the knives were under lock and key and there were no solid blunt objects in this part of the kitchen to work with. The pans were in something called an 'oven room,' and that was also locked up tight. All Oliver could find was a small wooden cutting board that looked like it had seen better days.

_Hopefully this works,_ the investigator prayed silently, trying to arrange the object in his bound hands. The metal of Reid's handcuffs bit into his flesh, and the soapy water was beginning to irritate the wounds. Oliver rested himself on his haunches and waited for the man who held him to come just a little bit closer. _Come on…come on, you bastard…_ Oliver thought. _Come and get me…_

The sudden touch of cold hands on Oliver's back startled him, and he jerked around to see Darius standing over him. "Well, well," he taunted. "And what do you think you're doing, _esclavo?_"

Oliver used the spare moment of silence to time his swing, and the next sound he heard was his jailer screaming in pain as the old wooden board connected with Darius's bare legs. "Didn't think of everything, did you?" Oliver spat as he rose to his feet and turned to run for the door. He only managed to get a few feet away when something pricked him in the shoulder, making him instantly tired and weak. _I have to keep going,_ Oliver willed himself. _I have to find Reid…I have to get us out of here… _

Finally, Oliver's feet could carry him no more. The world around him began to get extremely fuzzy and slowly faded into black.

----

The shock of frozen water that splashed over Oliver's impotent frame jolted the investigator harshly back into the world of the living. He tried to lift his hands to wipe the cold droplets out of his eyes, but found they were bound behind his back. His bare backside ached from sitting on something rough and hard and the first thing he was able to focus his vision on was the face of his friend, wide-eyed and frightened. Blinking his eyes a little to reorient himself, Oliver asked, "What do you want?"

"Oliver," he heard Reid say. "Oliver, they know."

"Know what?"

"Know that your _amigo_ here can hear just fine, _puto,_" an icy voice spat, its sound emitting directly from behind Reid's back. As Oliver's vision began to clear, he saw Darius standing over the agent, holding a long flat blade precariously close to his throat. Nearby, the younger man—_Raul,_ Oliver suddenly remembered—stood quietly, watching with interest. "Seems someone's been lying to me…"

"I didn't…"

Reid's sharp cry followed a violent strike to the back of his head, and the flat blade drew closer. "Try again, _esclavo._ The more you lie, the more your friend here suffers. I have no qualms about dispatching him."

"He's not yours to destroy," Oliver retorted softly.

Silence loomed for a moment. "Tell him how we found out about you, _puto,_" Darius demanded, leaning towards Reid's ear. "Tell him."

Reid swallowed, trying desperately to shy away from the blade. Guns and the threat of being shot didn't faze him much anymore—not after nearly twelve rounds of Russian roulette by two different sadists—but the thought of being carved open so he could slowly bleed to death terrified him. "Dur-during s-sex," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"Louder."

"During sex," Reid managed to say, silent tears streaming down his face. Oliver tried to catch his friend's eye, but the profiler had closed off his brown orbs in utter shame.

"Are you hurt?"

"_I_ ask the questions, _puto,_" Darius snapped, pulling Reid's head back by his hair, exposing his throat. "Perhaps I should carve a new necktie right along here…"

"No, don't!" Oliver shouted. "Reid, I promise, I'll get us out of this…"

"So that _is_ his name. _Bueno,_ Darius said, half-mockingly. "Good, good. Now, you, _puto_, are going to answer some questions for me, and if I like the answer, your _amigo_ here only gets punished by his owner. I don't like what you tell me, and Raul here sells this _magnifico_ creature for top dollar on the Eastern markets." The tall, dark-haired man lifted Reid's head further, as though studying it. "I think he should fetch a nice price in Laos, or the Philippines…"

"No," Oliver breathed, knowing full well what would happen to his friend should that happen. "No, you can't…"

"Start talking, and maybe it won't."

Oliver's mind raced. "What do you want to know?"

"Who is he?" Raul asked, pointing at his purchase.

"He's just a friend. We were meeting to play dice."

"This true, _puto_?" Darius asked, fixing his stare into Reid's eyes.

"Y-yes. It's true."

"People are going to miss him?"

"Yes." Oliver hoped he wouldn't have to elaborate.

"Business?"

Oliver and Reid managed to catch each other's glances for a fraction of a second. _Oh, shit_ is what each of them thought as they connected.

"Tick-tock, _esclavo…_" Darius pressed the blade further into Reid's flesh, and Oliver saw a bead of crimson forming on the gleaming metal and pale skin.

"He's an investigator, like me. Helps out my boss from time to time." The nodding of Reid's head, though slight, acted as a confirmation of this 'fact.'

"Mmm." Reid heaved a choking sigh of amelioration as his hair was released and the knife pulled from his throat. "Explains a few things. Satisfied, _primo_?"

Raul shook his head, and collected Reid form the hard wooden chair he'd been trapped in. "Yes. Now, _puto,_ you're going to learn the meaning of the word 'pleasure'…"

"Hold on, Raul. Before that, I need to use him for something."

"What, Darius?"

The older cousin unleashed Oliver from his rough seat and threw him on the bed. "I want something to send that bitch," he said simply. "And the sight of these two 'learning' together should do the trick."

Raul smiled. "You heard him, _puto,_" he barked, glaring at Reid. "Show me what you learned downstairs. _Everything."_

Reid stared shakily at Oliver, whose own eyes were like water on fire. The long knife was drawing closer to Reid, threatening to serve him on a platter as fish food or fertilizer. Heaving a deep, long sigh of submission, Oliver laid himself out on the plush mattress and nodded his head deliberately at his friend. "It's okay," he whispered, trying bravely to alleviate Reid's shame and fear and disgust as his own rose. "I won't tell anyone, I promise…"

Nearby, Raul set up a small digital recorder, carefully angling the lens to capture everything in as much detail as possible. The thought of seeing his new slave 'teaching' his cousin's a lesson or two thrilled the young man to no end, and it would prime him for what would come in the next 'lesson' Raul had planned.


	22. Story of a Girl

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"What do you mean, there's no file?" Emily asked, struggling to keep her professional manner in check. "It's an FBI case!"

"I'm sorry, Agent Prentiss," the archivist at the Miami field office replied sympathetically. "There was a fire here a couple of years ago, and it wiped out every hard copy we had. There might be one on file in our database…"

"We checked. Our analysts have checked. Whatever file you had, it's in fragments," Rossi said, his voice growing sterner.

"I don't understand…"

"Look," Emily cut in. "As far as records go, there's no file on this Pena?"

The archivist sighed. "What's the name?"

"Carlos Pena. Connected to a human trafficking bust several years ago; was killed in a barn fire?"

"Pena…Pena…"

"What is it?" Rossi asked.

"I'm not sure, but that name sounds familiar. Then again, there's like three dozen Penas in Miami proper alone, and about a third of them named Carlos. I'm sorry. I'll have to have a talk with out people in file security." The woman put air quotes around the word 'talk.'

"Thanks," Emily said briskly, compelling herself to not storm out of the office. "Honestly, Rossi, you'd think they'd have learned from the Richmond fire all those years ago."

"The trouble is, I think they learned too well," Rossi countered. "For years afterwards, Confederate soldiers were able to enlist simply by claiming experience and using a slightly altered name. When anyone asked for papers, they were conveniently 'burned up' in the Richmond fire."

"Still, we're back to square one. Carlos Pena could be someone's sick idea of a ghost story, like Keyser Soze or something."

"Huh?"

"A story people tell their kids to scare them into following certain rules. You know, like 'eat your carrots if you want to have curly hair'?"

Rossi looked at his colleague as though she had beamed in from Neptune. "Oh-kay…"

"Never mind. Point is, we're nowhere."

"There's always Garcia," Rossi pointed out. "We can try cobbling together what she's dug up and start asking some discreet questions among the local PD and other agencies…"

"The operative word being 'discreet.' I mean, as much as I know and trust Kyle, what's to say he's not overreacting to all this?"

"Have we ever seen him do that?"

"I hear tell he nearly shot that Australian guy in North Dakota some months back; demanded that the man tell him where his brother Landon had been taken after his kidnap."

"Oh, yeah. Well, wouldn't you do the same thing, though? If you had been in his position?"

Emily sighed. "Yeah."

"Then I'm of a mind to believe him. I know, doesn't fit with the image you all have of me, but I think—no, I'm sure that that young man wouldn't go through all this if he thought there weren't merit to it. There's something definitely wrong here, I can feel it."

"You sound like that Abby, talking about the 'magic gut'."

"There's some truth to it, Emily. Though I think you'd have to ask our friends from the Navy Yard to elaborate." Rossi climbed back into the driver's seat of the SUV and fired up the ignition. "But right now, I'd settle for finding out what everyone else's come up with."

----

--Chase has been working for various government agencies since we were nineteen,-- Kyle began to explain, using Gibbs as a translator. Both men were joined by Hotch, Morgan, McGee and Ziva as the hearing-impaired technician hooked up McGee's laptop to a larger plasma screen inside a conference room they'd wrangled out of a contact Kyle knew, a woman named Lucy who ran a private security firm near South Beach. –Never worked for any one directly, but both the NSA and the CIA were known to 'tap' her every now and again for the odd job.—

"Foreign work?" Ziva asked.

--Some. Mostly domestic though. She has some contacts in parts of Europe and Asia, but not as many as you'd think. She doesn't like to stray too far from home, especially not in the last eight years.—

"Why eight years?" Gibbs asked.

"The man who raised her was murdered in their house," Hotch explained quickly. "Remains unsolved."

"She thinks she might have been the intended target, but…" Morgan added. "It's hard to say for sure."

"What kind of work does she do, Kyle?" Ziva wondered.

--Intellegence gathering, mostly. Some contract work dealing with locating people and bringing them in. She had a falling out with one of the agencies, but still takes work from most of the others. Six years ago, she started to take on private clients as well.—

"Hence the licenses," McGee said. "I checked. This woman's licensed in Virginia, DC, and Maryland. Oliver Lawrence is also licensed in all three as well as Michigan and Massachusetts."

"Why so many?"

--To avoid problems in neighboring jurisdictions. We take work from pretty much anywhere, and the government can be picky.—

"Boss, both Davis and Lawrence have high-level clearances," McGee said quickly. "His is from his former position at the FBI and hers is…huh."

"Huh?" Morgan said. "Is that a technical term?"

"No, it's just…well, she's got clearance that would make the directors of both our agencies turn colors, Agent Morgan. And the reason is marked the highest of top secret-eyes only."

"You know about this, Agent Hotchner?"

Hotch worked hard to mask his genuine surprise. "I had no idea. We knew she was talented and connected, but this…"

--In any case,-- Kyle said, smacking the table a bit to catch everyone's attention, --About five or six years ago she goes off on a case down here in Miami, saying she's working with a number of agencies. She comes back, and completely clams up. I mean, Chase isn't exactly chatty about her 'private' work, but she'll tell me if things went well or if there's a new contact or something. That time, there was _nothing._ She was as white as a sheet, and I know she was sick to her stomach for a while. When I started taking over her files, I found out why. The case in Miami, Pena's case, had to do with the sale of young men and girls—some as young as fourteen. Apparently, in an attempt to prevent anyone from 'taking' his 'merchandise,' Pena imprisoned his victims in a giant barn he used as a 'sales floor' and lit the place like a torch.—

"My God," Morgan said, a hard knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

--The good news was, Pena died himself in the fire. The bad news was, so did about nine of his victims. Only five made it out alive, and two just barely.— Kyle heaved a giant sigh, then continued, pulling up some of the scant photographs that he'd kept hidden in the 'locked' files of his system. –These were taken the day of the fire,-- he explained. –I keep them locked away; not even Garcia would have been able to access them.—

The agents scanned each photograph, taking in the grisly sight each beheld: flames leaping from a rapidly burning building, some as high as Reid or Morgan were tall; moving figures burning alive, their faces frozen for one second in time with a mask of pure agony and fear; black windbreakers emblazoned with several different combinations of the governmental alphabet soup on them, trying desperately to quash the flames and pull victims from the fire; and one shot of the charred remains of Carlos Pena, dead from suffocation and suffering third-degree burns over ninety percent of his body.

"How could someone do that to another human being?" McGee wondered aloud, grimacing at the images before him.

"You'd be surprised, Agent McGee," Hotch said somberly. "People will come up with the most horrific of methods to torment and torture other people, for no other reason than that they can and they enjoy it."

--"So if this Pena is dead, how did his fingerprint end up in your office?"-- Gibbs asked the young technician.

--Good question,-- Kyle replied. –I'm hoping Abby can figure that one out for me.—

"Well, we're going to need a profile of Carlos Pena," Hotch determined.

"You're going to get in the mind of a dead guy?" McGee asked.

"Only place to start, McGee," Gibbs said, understanding the profilers' basic premise. "We don't have another suspect, and we need to know if the evidence you found in Virginia was legit or planted to throw us off."

"We can call Garcia, get some background," Morgan said, pulling out his cell and starting toward a corner of the room.

"Plus, Prentiss and Rossi should have the original case file," Hotch reasoned. "It's not much, but it's a start."

--I'll print off everything I have in my system, Hotch,-- Kyle offered. –And I'll go through those emails again, compare notes with McGee to see if there might have been a warning of some kind.-- The technician tapped McGee hard on the shoulder and pulled him aside, taking his notebook out of his pocket.

"You and I are going fishing," Gibbs said to Ziva.

"Gibbs, I didn't know you fished."

"Not that kind of fishing."

"Oh. We're going to find this Davis woman."

"She's in town, we're in town. I think there's more to this case than Parker knows, or else more than he's letting on. If we're going to find these people, we're going to need the whole story, and from the horse's mouth."

----

Garcia closed her eyes. She had scoured every known nook and cranny of cyberspace imaginable, and had broken about two and a half dozen laws just trying to gain access to certain agencies' records. The tech knew, beyond all doubt, that there was a file on this Pena _somewhere_; she just had to find it.

Bright eyes casually glanced at a second monitor nearby, scrolling through the emails of Chase Davis, Oliver Lawrence, Kyle Parker, and Dr. Spencer Reid. _Baby boy needs to learn about the 'delete' button,_ Garcia decided as she sifted through what had to be every email the young doctor ever received since he'd moved to Virginia just over five years ago. _I mean, really, Reid—you don't have to keep every Amazon receipt for every Star Wars trinket you've ever bought and book you've ever sent for…_

The action on both Oliver and Kyle's emails was dreadfully slow. Oliver got a few notices about purchases, his annual board-game convention announcement and RSVP sheet, and the odd letter from a friend or two. Work email was in a separate folder, and none of it was out of the ordinary. Kyle's mail consisted of chat transcripts with several of the firm's usual contacts, some of whom Garcia had met—Petr the Ukrainian and his cousin Anya, Mo Li and Song Fei, and Josh Hollenbeck. There were the occasional letters to his fiancée Beth, and notices about new software upgrades made available and the biannual convention for Computer Builders of America. His work folder consisted mainly of letters and transcripts of things sent form either Chase or Oliver, with the occasional contact or two dropping a line.

_Nothing, nothing, nothing,_ Garcia groused to herself. _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, is there no way to track two grown men who've decided to pull a Houdini out of thin air?_

Just then a new message popped up in Chase's inbox. Surprisingly, aside from the strange letters that Kyle had sent for translation (one being a cordial letter from Mo Li, the other a notice from some guy in the Russian Urals) and the hate mail, Chase's inbox was pretty clean and clear. Garcia looked at the subject line, which only contained the word _**Surprise**_ as a header. The sender's name had been removed.

'_Surprise,' huh? _the tech thought. _We'll see about that…_

Garcia ran a trace on the file and opened it. Inside was a small video player screen much like those found on YouTube, complete with a 'play' button. The body of the email read: _A token of payment for your crimes. They're more fun than they look._

Curious, Garcia hit the 'play' button. What she saw unfold on her screens made her sick to her stomach.


	23. I Didn't Mean to Turn You On

**This chapter contains some graphic suggestion and depictions of non-con. If you're squeamish, skip this one. Plus usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Oh, my God," the tech breathed, her eyes completely bewildered. Her heart sank like a rock on the Great Lakes and she immediately was consumed with both overwhelming pity and anger.

She saw a large, plush four-poster in the middle of the screen, dressed in bright white linens. The traces of a crimson-colored comforter were peeking out behind he sheets, but it had been pulled back to make way for the 'grand performance.' Garcia watched as Oliver Lawrence laid himself out on the bed, his head deliberately nodding towards something just offscreen. The tech could hear the traces of what sounded like choked sobs, ones that she herself had cried on a long ago night when the world she inhabited had turned upside-down.

"_You heard him, _puto_," _a voice snapped. "_Show me what you learned downstairs. _Everything." Suddenly, the sight of a completely denuded Reid came into view, being thrust onto the bed that stood in plain sight.

Garcia reached over and quickly plugged in her headphones. Whatever happened next, she knew she had to keep the amount of people who knew to a minimum. The blonde woman felt as though she was violating her friends in some way by watching, and though she wanted nothing more than to turn it off and drown herself in tears, she knew she had to analyze it herself. No one else could see this show of complete depravity—especially not strangers who didn't know the pair.

"_It's okay,"_ Oliver said, very softly, as Reid drew hesitantly near him. _"I won't tell anyone, I promise…" _The image of Reid stopped suddenly, almost as if he were staring into Oliver bright blue eyes, constituting a silent pact with his friend that lie beneath him. Garcia saw Reid's long brown locks shake slightly up and down, as if he were accepting the offer.

"_Now, _puto_!"_ the strange voice demanded. _"Show me, or else." _The voice was young, or else very high-pitched for an older man, and the use of the strange words made Garcia immediately think of Latin-based languages: Spanish was the most obvious, but it could also be Italian or Portuguese. Garcia knew enough French to know that that wasn't what she heard the strange, unseen man speak.

Onscreen, the tech watched as Reid climbed overtop of Oliver's prone form, his trembling hands trying desperately to find the 'right' place to touch his friend. Leaning over Oliver's face, Garcia saw her 'baby boy' press his lips against the older man's forehead, the bridge of his nose, and down both cheeks. The sound of soft sobs wafted up from somewhere, and Garcia guessed that Reid was struggling to keep his cries of humiliation and shame as quiet as possible. Below Reid, Oliver lay perfectly still, allowing his friend to defile him as though a life depended on it.

"Bueno, bueno, puto," the high-pitched voice said, a note of approval in his voice. _"Now, go closer. Show me more."_

It took all of Garcia's willpower to not scream out in disgust and frustration. The image of Reid repositioned itself lower on Oliver's frame, running now-violently shaking hands very slowly down the sides of Oliver's midsection. His head remained leaned into Oliver's skin, and Garcia could hear the sound of soft kisses being placed almost tenderly onto Oliver's chest. The quiet sobs were growing louder, and the sound was enough to make Garcia's heart break.

"_It's okay,"_ a voice the tech knew well said suddenly, its tone very level and soft. _"I know." _Something else was mumbled out of Oliver's lips, but the words were too faint over the sound of satisfied murmurs coming from behind the screen, the tones loud and husky.

"_Go on, _esclavo,_" _a deeper tone encouraged mockingly. _"After everything you've done to be close to each other…show us it was worth it."_

_Esclavo? _Garcia thought. She ran the term through a search engine, hoping to find a translation of some kind.

Onscreen, Oliver gingerly picked his arms up and placed the tips of his fingers onto Reid's back, gently brushing them along the younger man's spine. The faces of her friends were slightly obscured, but Garcia knew that this horrific display was not one they were willing to put on. _It's like they're doing this in order to save each other,_ she realized. _If one doesn't follow 'orders,' the other one will pay the price. _Her resolve strengthened, the tech unwillingly glued her eyes to the screen, taking in each trembling touch, each gentle kiss, each show of affection that she knew came from a different place other than purely sexual or romantic feelings.

"_Go lower,_" the high voice commanded, and Reid picked his head up, dully moving down Oliver's frame an inch or two. Garcia caught the image of Reid's tongue caressing his friend's belly button, his face bravely trying to mask the utter shame that visibly coursed through every one of his tiny movements and the subdued weeping that escaped his slender throat. A glint of light flashed brilliantly, and the tech keyed in for a closer look at Reid's neck. The sight of a metal-like band grabbed her attention, and as she delved further into the film she noticed Oliver had a similar contraption around his neck as well.

Just then the computer _beeped_ soundly, and Garcia hesitantly paused the 'film' to see what her 'babies' had brought up. In the results box of the search engine screen, Garcia read the translation to the strange word she'd heard Reid and Oliver's captors say. "Oh, my God," the blonde whispered, taking in the severity of the word as well as the direness of the situation.

_Esclavo: n. Slave or other forced servant. Spanish._

_Spanish,_ Garcia thought. _That only narrows it down to about a third of the speaking world—Spanish is among the top five languages spoken! _

Then Garcia thought of Carlos Pena. The dead man had made a business of buying and selling 'merchandise,' and the sudden realization of what exactly that meant hit her like a bullet to the chest. She immediately returned her focus to the 'film,' her anger and fear both freshly renewed with the information she'd received.

_Okay, guys,_ she thought, willing against all possibility that the images could in fact understand her. _Give me something more to help figure out where they've got you…I promise, we're coming to get you out of there…_

"_Lower,"_ the high-pitched voice demanded. _"Show me just how much you want him…"_

Garcia cringed as Reid unwillingly complied with the order, and the sight of the young man being forced to physically defile both his friend and himself was enough to make her pause the 'film' and heave huge wracking sobs of her own. _No…no no no no no…oh, god, Reid…Oliver…!_

On the screen, only the slick sound of Reid's mouth connecting with a very 'personal' part of Oliver's makeup could be heard, as well as a few pleased murmurs and a chuckle or two from the men sitting behind the camera. The sound of deep, even, measured breaths floated into range, and Garcia realized that Oliver was fighting both the natural urge to release and his own shame and disgust for the men watching him be so humiliated and abused. The choking, spluttering sound coming from Reid a few seconds later made Garcia realize that Oliver hadn't been successful at one of those goals.

"Bueno, puto, muy bueno,_" _the deeper voice said. _"You think he's learned well, _primo_?"_

"Si, primo," the higher voice affirmed. _"But perhaps you'd like to see your _puto_ in action?"_

"_No, please…" _ Oliver's image cried out. _"Please…haven't we…" _The sound of a violent strike to Oliver's face immediately silenced him. Garcia tried in vain to lift something identifiable from the retreating image—a scar, a birthmark, maybe a glimpse of the sick bastard's face—but got only well-tanned and dark-complexioned skin that stretched over a defined bicep and long fingers. Undaunted, the tech copied the image and began running it against every image that existed in cyberspace. _There has to be a match somewhere,_ she thought feverishly. _There has to be…_

"_You heard him, _hibrido,_"_ the deep voice spat. _"Show me."_

Oliver's fiery glare was enough to show Garcia that the investigator wanted nothing more than to tear the man holding him prisoner limb from limb, to grab his now openly sobbing friend and run as far as he could from that terrible place.

"_You want to get cute, _esclavo_?"_ the deep voice taunted. _"Very well." _The dark arms grabbed hold of Reid, who was screaming and struggling against the grip with all the strength he possessed, huge sobs wracking his thin frame so violently that Garcia feared he would break in two. _"Let's see how he fares overseas, hmm?"_

"_No! No, please…" _Oliver's hands were raised in a show of submission, his voice calm, his breaths erratic, his bright blue eyes full of trepidation. _"All right. I'll show you…"_

Garcia's unconsciously held breath exhaled from her throat slowly as she watched Reid being thrown onto the bed, the muffled sound of bare skin striking the soft sheets and mattress. The young profiler instinctively curled himself into a protective ball, his frame still shaking with sobs that cut right into Garcia's heart.

"_Come on, Reid," _Oliver whispered gently. _"Come on…"_

The sound of a head shaking against the silky linen resounded in Garcia's ears. _"I can't, Oliver," _he managed to choke out through tears. _"Not again…"_

"_Once more, okay?" _Oliver promised him, speaking kindly. _"Just close your eyes, and I'll make it as quick as I can…"_

Reid shook his head again as Oliver managed to uncurl the younger agent from his little ball. _"They won't stop," _Garcia managed to barely hear her young friend and colleague say. _"Not until…"_

"_I won't let that happen. Come on." _The look on Oliver's face told Garcia that the man was willing to give up everything—including his dignity and possibly his life—to spare the younger man any more humiliation and pain. She watched as Oliver's strong hands delicately placed Reid's into the 'position' they had to take, and her stomach revolted as she watched the investigator being forced to defile the profiler just as he himself had been not moments before. After what seemed like forever, Oliver was finally 'allowed' to stop.

"Bueno, magnifico," the deep voice said. "_I think that deserves something. What say you, _primo_?"_

"_Something, indeed," _the high-pitched voice replied. A thin, slightly caramel-beige toned figure stepped into the frame, picking Reid up from the mattress and placing him forcibly on one side of the giant bed. A long chain was brought out, and it was snapped securely around a thick bar in the headboard and chained to the metal collar around Reid's neck. _"Sleep, now, _querido,_" _the younger man said gently, the anger vanished from his voice. _"There's much to do later…"_

With that, the screen went black. It took every fiber of Garcia's being not to run for a bathroom and pour out both her heart and the contents of her stomach into a porcelain bench. Heaving deep breaths, it was several minutes before Garcia managed to pull herself together and start thinking about the next steps.

_Whatever happens, I can't let this get out, _she determined fiercely. _No one sees this that doesn't absolutely have to. _Garcia made a mental list of those that would be required to, and then reached for her phone. _I'll handle the analysis myself—I don't' care how long it takes, I'm not having some stranger see this…they've been violated enough._


	24. Summer in the City

**Usual disclaimers. Fiona, Michael and Sam come courtesy of the PTB over at _Burn Notice.

* * *

_**

"I'm telling you, Mike, whoever set that charge is top notch," a young woman said, taking a sip of iced tea. "And as for anything on this Carla, none of my contacts have even _heard_ of her. Perhaps she's with a new outfit?"

"I don't know," her companion said, pulling on the neck of a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. "New or not, they're well-connected. Had the balls to try and set up a hit right in plain sight. And she was able to burn me."

"About that," the young woman said, shaking her dark hair a little. "Far as I can tell, the burn notice was filled out by Cowan…"

"Who's now dearly departed," the man said.

"But, and here's the thing—there's no real given reason for the burn."

"How is that possible? I mean, I saw the file…"

"Mike, you saw what you were _allowed_ to see," the woman replied. "Believe me, I've seen the real file. Cowan fabricated a load of bullshit and hinted that you were selling secrets and other items to the highest bidder. It's a wonder the feds didn't just arrest you."

The woman's companion stared at her as though she had become a breathing representation of the Statue of David. "How much bullshit?"

"My boys say that had Cowan laid it on any thicker you'd be talking with a friend of ours in a tiny cement hole now instead of me having lunch here with you in Miami," the woman said. "And believe me, Joshua Hollenbeck is not one to trifle with. I know him, just like I know you."

The man—Michael—heaved an exasperated sigh. "So, no leads on the burn notice, and no leads on who might be out to kill me."

"Well, that list's pretty long, Mike," the young woman pointed out. "I mean, you've pissed off just about as many people as I have, and mine at least are homegrown nuts."

"It's not every day that small countries use you as a spook story."

"I heard. Armenians. Nice touch." The woman tipped her glass in a silent salute to that achievement.

Just then the silence was shattered. "Hey, Jose, another round?"

"Sam," Michael said simply. "Any luck?"

"Mike, I've beaten every contact in the bushes I've got left, and so far there's nothing. Sorry, buddy. Hey, are you going to eat that?" the slightly disheveled man said, eyeing Michael's section of chicken sandwich that was still lingering on his plate.

"It's yours, Sam," Michael said, heaving a sigh. "Well."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help, Mike. I'm still waiting on a call from my boys on that name you gave me, but no word yet." The woman frowned, glancing at her cell phone.

"Something wrong, Chase?" Michael asked, looking aloof but slightly concerned.

"It's just…when I left there weren't any cases we were working on. If they'd picked something up they'd have called, and now neither one's answering their phone."

"Maybe you need new help?" Sam said between bites of sandwich. He washed it down with a margarita, forgoing the salt. "Gotta watch the blood pressure," he explained. "The lady friend, she's got me on a health kick…" He grimaced as he said it.

"No more fried food, huh?"

"Last night I think I ate raw fish and seaweed. I'd rather die from the grease."

"Me too," Chase said, crunching on her pickle spear. A petite woman pulled the chair out across from the investigator, setting herself in it as though it were a recliner and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. "Any luck, Fi?"

"Not a damn thing. The name's bogus, the materials are all black market…"

"So, untraceable."

"No, I traced 'em," the petite woman said. "Problem is, I know the suppliers, and we're not exactly on friendly terms."

"Old friends, Fi?" Michael said.

"Hardly. More like…old competitors from way back."

"Christ," Chase said. "Working with you guys is like chasing chickens. I'll be glad to go home to Virginia…"

Michael let the young woman chatter on a minute or two, but kept his eyes on a black SUV that was parked a short distance away. "Fi, did you notice anyone following you?" he asked.

"No, why?"

"Sam?"

"Nuh-uh, Mike," the older man said, still working on the sandwich. "Coast was clear."

"Problem, Mike?" Chase asked, now starting to turn around.

"I think we're about to find out," he said, standing up as two figures walked towards the little group—one a lithe woman, the other a graying no-nonsense type that looked as though he meant business. "Can I help you?" Michael asked as the two stopped behind Chase.

"Are you Chase Davis?" the woman asked, her tone serious.

"Depends," Chase asked, rising to her feet. "Who wants to know?"

Instantly two sets of credentials showed themselves. "NCIS?" the young woman asked. "What do you want with me?"

"You're going to have to come with us, miss," the man said, his tone holding a note Chase had only ever heard before in Hotch's voice.

"Why? On what charge?"

"Come with us, Chase?"

"Hang on a second," Sam said, clearing his throat. "What do Navy cops want with a private investigator?"

The glare the man gave Sam was enough to melt lead. "Personal business," he said flatly.

"Concerning?" Michael asked, now looking as though he might try something.

"Oliver Lawrence."

"What about Oliver?" Chase asked. "What happened?"

"You'll have to come, Miss Davis," the man said. "There's some people that are waiting on you."

"People?" Fiona asked. "What sort of 'people'?"

"The FBI," the woman said crisply.

Chase blinked. "I'm confused," she said. "I know people there—why didn't they just…"

"Can I see those?" Michael asked, pointing toward the Navy agents' credentials. Once they were in his hand, he and Fiona examined them carefully. "They're legit," he said. "Now, as to the lady's question…"

"What happened to Oliver?" Chase demanded, her voice even. "Where is he, Agent…Gibbs?"

"We don't know," the man said, his voice as even as hers. "He went missing from your offices two nights ago, along with another person."

"Kyle Parker?" The look on Chase's face told her companions that things were serious.

"No, a Dr. Reid. I believe you know him?" the woman—Officer David—replied.

"I do. We go back a ways. What the hell…why wasn't I…"

"You'll have to ask your friend Parker," Agent Gibbs said. "He was pretty insistent. Something to do with a case you were working here?"

"Case's resolved, or as near as it can be," Michael said, an edge of curiosity to his tone. "How can we help, Chase?"

"She's got to come with us," the agent said firmly.

"And she's getting company," Michael insisted. "One way or another, she's not going alone."

"It's okay, Mike," Chase said. To the agents, she said, "We'll all go. Something tells me we may need all the help we can get."

"Suit yourselves," Agent Gibbs said. "We're at the Foster Building, 23491…"

"St. Alameda," Michael finished. "I know the place."

"Miss Davis? If you would, please?"

Chase hesitated a second, then looked at Michael, Sam and Fiona. "I'll see you there," she said. The look in her eyes said _thanks._

----

"Baby girl, there's something you're not telling me," Morgan said as he continued to press for more information on Carlos Pena. Hotch had looked like he was going to knock heads together at the Miami field office once Emily and Rossi told him about the incident at the archives. "Something about Pena?"

"Nope. Still looking. It's as though he dropped off the map entirely once he died—there's no record of finances, no family listing, no _nothing._" The tone in Garcia's voice was somber and formal, much unlike the perky, bright tone the agent was used to hearing on a daily basis.

"Garcia, what is it?"

"Nothing. Look, did you find Chase yet?"

"We didn't…uh, yeah, she's walking in right now," Morgan said, his eyes taking in the small entourage that filed in the office building. He recognized the woman in question, as well as Agent Gibbs and Officer David, but there were three more people that followed Chase inside that looked as though they knew her somehow. "Why?"

"Is Hotch there?"

"Right across the hall. Penelope, what's this about?"

"Just, ah…go get them, will you? And give Hotch your phone."

"You can just…"

"Just do it, Derek, all right?" Garcia was nearly snapping. Morgan had only heard her sound this tense twice before, and neither time had given them good news.

"Okay," Morgan said, his voice trailing a bit. Walking towards the small group that had congregated near the door, he handed his phone over to Hotch. "It's for you," he said. "Garcia says it's important."

"Garcia?"

"Is Chase there?"

"Yes," the lead agent said briskly, eyeing the three newcomers with apprehension. "Why?"

"Take her into a room and put me on speaker. Just you two—no one else."

"Garcia…"

"Please, sir. It's about Reid and Oliver, and it's pretty sensitive."

Hotch looked at the bewildered investigator, noticing that she had gotten barely three words out during the myriad of questions that had bombarded her since her arrival. "Chase," he said, his no-nonsense tone effectively silencing the group. "Come with me."

"Hotch, where's Oliver? Where's Kyle? What's going on?"

"In here," Hotch insisted firmly. Confused, the young woman obeyed, hoping that she would finally get some answers.


	25. Question Everything

**Usual disclaimers. Some feedback on how I'm handling the many 'cameos' would be appreciated.** :)

* * *

"Hotch, what the hell…."

The lead profiler raised a hand, silencing her. "Uh-huh. Yes." Covering the speaker, Hotch said, "Have them bring in the laptop."

"Laptop? What for?"

"Now, Chase."

The woman knew better than to ask more questions. Poking her head out of the room, she called out, "Hey, there a laptop around here?"

"McGee's got one," the lithe woman replied, whom Chase had learned was called Ziva. "He and that other man are using it…"

"I need it. Now." The tone in the young woman's voice was plain.

Emily walked off towards an adjacent room to where the small party had gathered, and a few minutes later she produced the item in question.

"Thanks." Chase quickly shut the door, and Hotch put the phone back on speaker.

"Okay, now can you hook it up to see me, or do you need a walk-through?"

"Garcia, what the hell is this all about?" Chase cried, now completely exasperated. "First I have Navy cops telling me Oliver and Reid went missing, then I can't find Kyle, then I've got all of you looking at me like I'm missing something obviously important. Either tell me what is going on, or I'm going to _lose it_!"

The room fell silent a moment as Chase recomposed herself. A few minutes later, the laptop screen flashed and the image of Garcia came through like a genie appearing out of a lamp.

"Garcia, tell her," Hotch said, his no-nonsense voice evident.

Swallowing hard, the blonde technician audibly cleared her throat and began to talk. "Um, there's a problem, Chase."

"Ollie and Reid went missing."

"Yes."

"And no one bothered to tell me."

"Well, there's a reason for that…"

"Oh, this better be fantastic," Chase said dryly. "I mean, I _love_ being kept out of the loop when my friends and employees are being hurt, abducted or threatened. Makes my day, right there."

"Chase, I'm serious. We can't find them. Kyle insisted that we not tell you—something about working with a troublesome client there in Miami…"

"That about sums up Mike. Still, what possessed him to want to keep this quiet? He _knows_ better, Garcia!"

"I know, I know, and I'm sure he's sorry, but see, we didn't have any real evidence that said anything was wrong."

Chase did a double-take. "Wait. Hang on. Ollie and Reid are missing, but there's no proof they went missing? I mean, isn't the fact that, oh, _they're not here_ proof enough?!"

"Chase," Hotch said sternly.

The young woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, Hotch. It's been a long couple of weeks. So, no evidence…"

"Well, not exactly. See, Kyle had this woman from the Navy Yard he knew come to help him process your offices after he noticed that Reid and Oliver weren't there, especially after he noticed some things had been left behind."

"Like?"

"Their coats, for one. It was below freezing two nights ago in Virginia, and neither one bothered to take their coat."

"Well, Ollie's that stupid—comes from being raised up north," Chase admitted. "Reid doesn't strike me as the coat-leaving type, though."

"He's not," Hotch said. "Claims anything below seventy is freezing."

"Plus, their cell phones were left behind, and their weapons," Garcia added. "Kyle put that together with some things that didn't seem right and called this Abby person."

"Abby?"

"From the Navy Yard. Specializes in forensics," Garcia clarified.

"Okay. If Kyle called her up, she's probably good," Chase said. "So…then what?"

"Scoured everything, and came up with minute trace evidence and a fingerprint—it belonged to a Carlos Pena."

Chase's face fell slack. "What name did you say, Garcia?"

"Carlos Pena. Died several years ago…"

"…in a barn fire." The investigator's face turned white, then red with fury as she slowly shook it. "Bastard."

"You remember the case?" Hotch asked.

"I do. It was a nightmare. The kind of thing that'd put your boys and girls in the nuthouse with nightmares, and I'm being kind." Swallowing a little, Chase asked, "Garcia, why now? I mean, he's…dead. I saw him die…"

"Oh, he's dead. Got confirmation that his remains made it to the Navy Yard for autopsy," Garcia said. "Abby called up a couple hours ago."

"She find anything else, Garcia?" Hotch pressed.

"She's analyzing a strange image I got off a film…"

"Film? What film?" Chase asked.

Garcia bit her lips together. "I shouldn't…"

"No, you should. Right now, Garcia. What's going on?" Hotch demanded, his voice even and firm.

"Someone sent a 'film' to your email account, Chase," Garcia finally admitted. "It's in the one labeled '_Surprise.' _

"Garcia, what's wrong with it?" Chase asked, her tone growing worried. "What aren't you telling us? And why is Morgan pissed about you not telling him something?"

"He's mad?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah," Garcia said. "You'll understand why I didn't tell him when you see the 'film'."

Nervously, Chase found the file in question and clicked on the link. The film commenced, showing every horrific detail in living color.

"Oh, my God," Chase breathed, closing her eyes at certain points.

"Does anyone else know about this?" Hotch asked, he too turning away from the screen. The sound of Reid's cries rang through their ears, and the quiet words from Oliver that tried to comfort him struck deep into Chase's heart.

"As far as I know, no, sir," Garcia said. "Now you see why…"

Chase stared dumbly into the screen, completely horrified, sickened and bewildered. "My God," she said. "Oh, my…"

----

"What the hell is going on in there?" Morgan said, palming the back of his head.

"My guess is, you probably don't want to know," one of the newcomers said, his dark eyes boring deep into the profiler's gaze.

Morgan sighed. "The problem is, I _do_…"

"Any word from Abby?" Agent Gibbs asked, looking at McGee.

"She said something about matching the print, but then we got…disconnected."

"You didn't _call_ her?!" Gibbs snapped, and soon the room watched as the younger man winced in pain and rubbed the back of his head.

"On it, Boss." The sounds of a cell phone being dialed were unmistakable.

--What's she doing in there?— Kyle asked, waving at the three newcomers as though they were old friends. –How did you…--

--"We had to know the rest of the story, Parker,"— Gibbs said. –"Your friend in there is the only one who does."—

Kyle set his gaze on the carpet under his feet and shook his head. –This is my fault,-- he signed, quickly snapping the signs off his hands. –If I'd just told her…--

--"Hey, you didn't haul them off,"— Gibbs countered.

--But if Pena is somehow behind this, even from the grave, then we're already too far behind. They could be lost.—

"Wait," the older of the three newcomers said quickly. "What'd he say?"

Gibbs translated Kyle's last statement. "Name ring a bell?"

"Yeah, it does," the man said. "Carlos Pena, nasty bastard. Torched himself in a barn fire some years back—about the time I came down to Miami. It was one of my last cases before I 'retired'."

"You saw this guy?" Morgan asked.

"Saw him shoot up like a rocket, is more like," the man replied. "He wasn't giving anything up, that I can tell you…"

"Who are you?"

"Name's Sam. This here's Fiona--" the man motioned to the petite woman sitting lazily in a nearby chair—"and this guy next to me is Mike."

"The 'Mike' that was a pain in the ass?" McGee inquired, hanging up with Abby.

The shorter man—Mike—looked almost hurt. Staring at Kyle, he mouthed the words 'pain in the ass?'

Kyle shrugged. –Every time she comes down here, she works for two weeks and comes home bitching on how you lot can't get it together.—

"Anyway, so what do you know about this Pena?" Morgan said, a little too loudly.

Sam cleared his throat loudly. "Right. Well, he was running a trafficking ring some time back…"

"That we know," Gibbs said simply. "Anything else?"

"All right. Sheesh. Well, Pena was pretty particular—he dealt only in young adults, preferably between about nineteen and thirty."

"Reduces the risk of being caught," Emily said. "Missing persons cases run seventy-two hours before official declaration…"

"And no AMBER alerts," McGee added.

"What else?"

"This guy, he was pretty sick. Some of my buddies involved couldn't eat for a month after being in there undercover. Made everyone think they were running a job placement service, and the victims didn't know the difference until it was too late."

"Domestic or foreign?" Ziva asked.

"Come again?"

"Were they dealing in illegal aliens, or in local runaways and the like?"

"Both, I think. Where they came from, he wasn't picky. Took men too, which my buddies found highly unusual."

Morgan and Emily made a face. "That _is_ unusual," Rossi said. "Men, especially young men, can often fight off their captors, making them less desirable to catch or sell."

"Hence the ruse," Morgan said. "If they think they're going to work a legitimate job, they'll go willingly."

"Still, men?"

"Hey, there's a market for just about anything," Sam said. "Trust me."

"What did Abby say?" Ziva asked McGee, who was listening to the conversation with a blanched face.

"Uh…she said she figured out how a dead man's print ended up in Kyle's office," the agent replied, trying hard to keep the lunch he'd managed to snatch inside his stomach.

Instantly several pairs of eyes looked at him. "How?" Michael asked, now studying the round man with an appraising look.


	26. Red, Red Wine

**Some disturbing images, and the usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"It seems just after Pena lit himself on fire, he touched someone that was standing in close proximity to him," McGee explained. "Somehow, both his finger and the surface he touched—in this case, another person's skin—fused, leaving part of the ridge detail from Pena's fingerprint embedded into the person's skin."

"After a certain point, skin melts," Michael said, whistling. "They had to have touched at precisely the right moment."

"It's bizarre, but not completely impossible," McGee said. "I asked Abby, and Ducky also confirmed it."

The room sat in silence for a moment. Then Morgan asked, "Did they find anything else?"

"Ducky's still doing the autopsy—a practical one and a forensic one," McGee replied. "He'll call as soon as he finds something."

"Your ME knows forensic autopsy?" Rossi asked Gibbs, looking rather impressed.

"Claims it 'adds to our arsenal,' Agent Rossi," Gibbs said simply, nodding once. "It works, too."

Kyle remained fixed on the door that Chase had gone through nearly an hour before, worried that there had been no sign of his friend. As large groups tended to be a problem for him—he could never keep up with the lip reading, and no one except Chase and Agent Gibbs spoke any kind of sign. Picking himself up, he started to walk down the hall towards Lucy's office, hoping to 'borrow' another laptop to work from. Just then he saw the door open, and Chase staggered out of the room, her face deathly white, her chest heaving up and down in a rapid pattern, her eyes wild and haunted, and her legs and hands shaking so badly that Kyle needed to catch her before she fell flat on her face.

--What's wrong?— he demanded, sitting her on the carpet below them. –What did she say? What's happened?—

Soon Kyle could feel people standing over him, and Chase's eyes flickered slightly towards someone's voice.

"Help me get her up," Kyle said, using his voice. Soon Morgan and Michael were helping Chase to her feet and setting her in the chair that Fiona recently vacated. –Chase, what happened?— he asked again, making sure she was looking at him.

Chase shook her head decisively. –"Those _bastards,"_— she said, her hands saying more than her voice was.

"Hotch?! What the hell?" Morgan cried as Hotch walked out of the office, looking almost as pale as Chase.

The lead agent shook his head.

Taking a few deep breaths, Chase started to speak. "We know what they were taken for," she said, biting her lips together as she said each word.

"What?" Rossi wondered. "Why…?"

"Payback," Hotch said quickly.

Heaving another deep breath, Chase said, "I was there when Pena torched himself and his victims. He'd tried taunting me, as I was his 'type', and when that didn't work he lit himself on fire."

"Taunting?" Gibbs asked.

Chase nodded her head. "You know, telling me I could 'switch places' with one or two of his original victims, 'maybe save one worthless life' in exchange for mine. Apparently he thought I was 'higher grade' material or something."

"And?"

Deep breath. "I shot him."

"Whoa," Sam said holding up his hands. "I thought he fried."

"He did. But I shot him too. Slow bleeder, longer to die."

"Serves him right," said Fiona, looking ready to 'shoot' a few things herself. Though she knew very little about these people or this 'case,' the thought of selling people on the black market disgusted her.

"When he realized he'd lose everything, he ran—rather, stumbled—back into the barn, and…well, you know the rest." Chase's breaths were flattening out, becoming more regulated.

"Still doesn't explain…"

"Someone decided to pay her a 'visit,' Michael said finally, understanding the situation. "Waited until the 'business' was rebuilt, most likely, and enough time had passed to create a shock."

"Yeah," Chase breathed.

"Chase, where's Reid?" Emily asked, now extremely worried. IN the few years she'd known the young woman, she'd never seen her react like this, not to anything.

"They have him," Hotch supplied.

"They?"

"Whoever took over Pena's business," Michael said. "You said they dealt in men too, right, Sam?"

"Yeah. It was peculiar then…"

"So it shouldn't be hard to track. Come on." The self-assured man quickly left the office, beckoning his 'associates' to follow.

"Ziva, go with them," Gibbs said. "They find anything out, we'll need to know."

"They'll call, Agent Gibbs," Chase said weakly. "They're crazy, but not _that_ stupid."

"Go," he insisted, and Ziva raced to catch up. "McGee, go and get another computer," Gibbs barked, now falling back into his usual mode of operation.

"Start tracking anything that might have moved since Pena's death," McGee said, as if reading his superior's mind.

"And see if Abby and that Garcia have anything else to add," Gibbs said.

"We're going to need a working profile on both Pena and his operation," Rossi said quickly.

"And we need it right now," Hotch said. "I'm not sure how much more Reid and Oliver can take."

The mention of the two missing men sparked a scene that no one in the room had ever seen before, save one—the sight of Chase Davis instantly breaking down into tears. Kyle held onto the sobbing woman as she poured her heart out onto his shoulder. "This is my fault," she whispered frantically, the words almost becoming a mantra. "This is my fault…"

"Chase! Focus!" Morgan snapped. "Right now, what can you tell me about Pena's old operation?"

The young woman took a few minutes to compose herself, then ushered the remaining agents into the room she and Hotch had just vacated. As they filed in, Rossi leaned in and asked Hotch "What were you doing in here that caused her to react like that?"

Hotch, keeping his voice low, said, "The people holding Reid and Oliver sent a tape—one to show Chase just what they were doing with them."

"And?"

Hotch shook his head. "It's better you don't know the details."

"Broad picture?"

"If they somehow survive this nightmare, it'll be a miracle."

----

Oliver fell to the ground in a heap. The sound of metal clanged together as something was attached to the steel band firmly gripped around his neck. The warm sensation of feathers nestling next to his bare skin made the investigator think of down comforters and a firm mattress. Several of the feathers moved quickly, and a _clucking_ sound rang through the man's ears.

"Pleasant dreams, _esclavo_," he heard Darius chortle as more cold metal encircled itself around Oliver's ankles. "Can't have you getting ideas." As his captor's footsteps faded into the recess of night, Oliver immediately ran his hands over the bonds that fastened his legs together. Strong fingers searched desperately for a keyhole, or a fastening pin, or some method of removing the hateful devices from his ankles. In the dark, however, his sight was limited, and his fingers betrayed nothing.

Oliver tried to stand, but the chain anchoring him to the ground was too short to allow it. It allowed him to crawl, however, and so Oliver used this to try and position himself next to the small brown structure that held the clucking creatures inside. He curled into a ball and closed his eyes, hoping against all hope that it didn't rain as the night progressed.

----

Reid stared dully at the blank white wall. It seemed as though he'd been looking at it for hours, as though it were the only constant of stability left in whatever world he was being forced to inhabit.

The young profiler shivered violently, despite the fact that he had been allowed to cover himself with the thick comforter and soft silk sheets that clothed the bed. His skin crawled as the cloth brushed against his skin, and Reid's mind involuntarily flashed back to the horrible scene that had played out only a short time ago. He could hear the revolting catcalls of his and Oliver's captors wafting though his ears, urging them to 'go lower' and 'show' them the display they so desperately craved. The soft touch of Oliver's hands had burned into his memory, the tips of his fingers and the points of his lips being savagely coerced into exploring parts of Reid that the profiler knew Oliver would never dare intrude upon otherwise. The touch of the soft fabric brought that painfully to the forefront of Reid's mind, and he wondered idly if he would ever overcome this feeling of shame and dread.

Footsteps sounded on the stair, and Reid froze, holding his breath as the covers of the four-poster were pulled back, exposing his naked flesh to a pair of dark intrusive eyes that lapped up the scene before them. "Come, _querido,_" the voice of his warden cooed. "Get up now. I have something for you…"

_Please, God, just leave me alone,_ Reid thought desperately as he heard the sound of his 'leash' being unwound from the bar in the headboard. _Leave me alone, or let me die… _As he was led down the steep staircase, Reid thought briefly of simply 'falling' down them accidentally on purpose. The tug against his neck broke the thought, and soon Reid's bare feet touched the cool linoleum tile and something else—a soft, skin-like substance that was feather-soft and silk-smooth. Looking down, he saw deep red rose petals scattered across the floor, winding into a path that led to the small kitchen table.

"Come, _amor,_" Raul said gently, his voice and demeanor showing no signs of the ire and anger that had been present earlier that day. "You proved yourself well today. We'll eat a little something and then proceed with the next 'lesson'."

The smell of chicken floated through Reid's nostrils, and the sight of the bright candlelight illuminated the two deep wine glasses that sat next to each other, both a third full of red wine. A glint of light flickered off of the steel salad bowl, and Reid saw the purple color of red cabbage mixed with dark green spinach leaves and bright orange carrots. A smaller steel container held the salad dressing, which was to be ladled out with a small wide-mouthed spoon. The room was dark, save for the candlelight, and the romantic aura the scene poured out made Reid sick to his stomach.

"Please," he whispered, his eyes taking in the sight of the food as one would take in the sight of sugar-coated dirt. "I-I'm not hungry…"

"No, _querido,_ you must eat," Raul said simply, as if Reid's feelings were of no consequence. "Can't have you getting sick, or trying to starve."

Reid's heart sank. Raul gently placed him in a high-backed chair, attaching his 'leash' to another anchor point set in the wall. "Here," he said, pulling something out of a small bag. "I got this for you. My _mami,_ she never allowed a bare chest at the table—said animals ate that way."

In Raul's hands lay a thin shift, so thin it was practically see-through. The garment opened up like a vest, but Reid noticed that there were no buttons to hold the item closed against the chest. It was long, constructed much like one of the baseball jerseys JJ wore on the rare Casual Friday the office held. As Raul slid the garment over Reid's arms, he noticed that it was not sized long enough to cover anything of importance. "There," his captor said brightly, as though he'd presented Reid with something he'd wanted. "That's better. Now, let's eat."

----

Oliver shivered. He knew from experience that night air and temperatures were a great deal cooler than daytime ones, but the chill in the ocean wind was wrapping itself around his bare frame like a frozen winter blanket. His teeth chattered, and he wished desperately that he could curl himself small enough to fit inside the chicken coop that he was nestled against. Several of the fluffy creatures had come outside to see what was laying in their 'yard,' and a few had pecked at him as though he was an intruder. It took several sharp tosses of Oliver's arms to beat off the feathery animals, and finally only a couple decided to settle themselves next to his barely warm body. The heat their feathers generated was a welcome bit of relief from the persistent chill, and Oliver's teeth tapped together a little less.

_Why the chicken coop? _ he wondered. _What's this depraved asshole trying to say—that no matter how much I 'obey,' I'm still little more than an animal that has to jump when its master calls it? Or is this just another sick form of trying to break me?_

The thought of being 'broken' made Oliver instantly think of Reid. He remembered Reid's cries as he'd been compelled to defile Oliver's body for his captor's pleasure, and the sight of him struggling frantically as Darius had threatened to take him away had made Oliver's heart break. _If we get though this, he's going to need a lot of help,_ the investigator thought. _And I should be the one to help him._

The ground was damp, and as Oliver tossed around to try and find a comfortable position he could feel the grainy earth clinging to his bare skin. Some of the dirt was wedging itself in crevices that Oliver wished with all his heart that he could wash, but the promise of a 'bath' had not been given, nor did he expect one anytime soon. He could still feel the bit of filth that still stuck to the back of his legs, mostly flaked off by now but the bare film still remaining. The second Oliver had tried to use the soapy rag to wash that part of himself, he'd received a sharp kick to the gut. _"That's for the floor, not you, _esclavo,_" _the guard had snapped. _"You don't need cleaning unless the boss says so." _Oliver had been silently grateful that Reid hadn't been forced to 'clean' him during that horrific display, and was glad that their captors' interests stopped at the waist-level. The thought of Reid having to intake that filth into his system made Oliver nauseated to his core. It had been bad enough that he had been forced to eat bits of it himself.

Cold wind blew over the nape of his neck and the base of his spine, and Oliver curled himself further into a ball, trying to endure this latest humiliation as bravely as he could. _If I can just figure out how to get these restraints off me_, he reasoned, _then I can grab Reid and escape…_

----

"You're not eating."

Reid's fingers trembled as they gingerly picked up the plastic fork, spearing a bite of chicken that had already been cut up for him. The sight of his 'dinner' being 'prepared' for him as though he were a toddler sent another wave of shame coursing over his thin frame. He methodically put the bite in his mouth and began chewing, tasting nothing but dry sawdust and fear. "It's…it's good," he said softly, trying bravely to 'please' his captor.

"_Bueno!_ I'm glad you like it!" Raul helped himself to more wine, careful not to overfill the glass. "A toast," he said, raising the glass. Reid cautiously picked up the glass, trying to keep the depraved man happy. "To a long relationship." The young profiler tipped his head in acceptance, then lightly struck the glass with his own before he sat it back down.

"You're not drinking?" Raul said, his voice a mixture of surprise and hurt.

"I-I can't…"

"Go on. Drink."

Reid swallowed thickly at the thought of intaking the alcohol. He'd never been a drinker, much to Morgan's dismay (_only twenty-something teetotaler I've ever met, _he'd said) and the mere thought of imbibing alcohol made his stomach revolt. Reid had never acquired the taste, and when the team went out to celebrate he usually stuck to soda flavored with Grenadine. He'd had a couple drinks, on very special occasions, but they always ended with him giving up after a few sips.

"Drink, I said," Raul repeated, his voice harsher this time. Trembling, Reid picked up the wine, put his lips to the glass and took a sip, the harsh taste coating his tongue and soft palate.

"More, _querido,_" the older man insisted. "This is a celebration."

_Not for me,_ Reid thought as he slowly complied. He tried to take a larger swallow of the wine, but it revolted in his mouth and he ended up spitting most of it back into the glass, a little spraying on the tablecloth and the thin shift. Coughing violently, Reid's eyes flickered between the glass and Raul's face, praying that he wouldn't be 'punished' for not drinking enough.

"We'll have to work on that," Raul said simply, putting his hand on top of Reid's that was pressed onto the tabletop. The older man's eyes were shining brightly, as though he were in love—_and he probably is,_ Reid thought. The idea of being forced to 'consummate' such a relationship made the profiler sick with disgust.

"Well, _querido,_" Raul said finally, standing up and beginning to clear the table. "Whatever you didn't eat you'll eat tomorrow. Nothing goes to waste."

Reid suddenly thought of Oliver. _When was the last time he ate? _he wondered. _Or is he being fed at all? _The sight of Raul scraping leftover scraps into a metal bucket made Reid shiver, and he clutched the open-air shift closer to his chest. _Don't tell me he has to… _Thoughts of Oliver being forced to eat the bucket's contents made silent tears trickle down Reid's long oval-shaped face. _Oh, God…how will he come out on the other end of this—if there is an 'other end' at all? _Reid shifted a little in his chair, and the sound of the metal 'leash' clacking against the wooden object caught Raul's attention.

"Impatient thing, aren't you?" he said, only partially stern. "You'll have to wait until I'm done."

The young profiler silently grabbed hold of the chain and began to tug at it, trying to keep his efforts undetected. The flickering candlelight provided enough light to see, but not enough to shed light on what he was trying to accomplish. Reid's pulls on the chain were slow and deliberate, as he realized the moment Raul figured out what he was up to the consequences would be dire.

After a few minutes, Raul cleared the last of the dishes, saying "I'll see if I can get that _puto_ to finish up." He walked over to Reid, who had instantly dropped the chain just moments before, and unlatched him from the anchor point. "Come, _querido,_" he said seductively. "There's more to learn."


	27. Building a Mystery

**Usual disclaimers. The plot thickens...tell me what you think!

* * *

**

The warmth of the soapy water seeped into Oliver's hands, and after what seemed like the hundredth time he scrubbed the grand floor of the 'receiving room' he stopped a second to wrench an ache out of his bare back. The night had been cold, and the 'cleaning' was taking longer because of the dirt that fell off of Oliver's caked frame, swirling in with the suds to create a muddy mess. "Make sure it sparkles, _puto,_" Darius said as he set about his 'business' for the day. "Otherwise you'll eat it."

Memories of the last time Oliver had had to 'clean' the floor in that fashion rose to the forefront of his mind. Biting his lip, he resumed his 'position' on his hands and knees and continued to work, hoping against all hope that an opportunity to escape—or at least, to see Reid—would present itself.

Soon, however, the giant room was gleaming, and Oliver's guards grudgingly clucked their approval. "The boss will be pleased, _esclavo,_" one of them said, almost as a compliment. "You're learning."

The thought of being forced to serve as a personal maid, kept nude until the end of his days as he scrubbed floors and 'performed' for the pleasure of his captor made Oliver's blood boil. He looked up at his guards and calmly asked "What's next?"

"Come," the guard said. "You'll be doing a little housecleaning in the back…"

Oliver swallowed thickly as he wondered what that meant. _Do they mean the barn, or the little guest house Reid's being kept…?_

The guards snapped on the metal 'leash' that Oliver was required to wear when outside of the estate's walls. "Can't have you running off, _esclavo,_" Darius had said flatly after beating Oliver for questioning it. "And now we know you won't."

_Fat chance of that,_ Oliver thought savagely. He kept his head trained on the green grass and soft earth that made up most of the expansive yard, hoping that by showing submission he could gain access to wherever Reid was being held.

Once the party 'arrived,' Oliver was forced to his knees. "On the ground, _esclavo,_" the guard said, his firm hands holding Oliver in his diminished position. "You'll learn your place before long."

Oliver repressed the urge to bark. _I'd probably get a blow to the head for that, _he thought, though a dog was exactly what he felt like at the moment. Moments later, the young carmel-colored man answered the door, wearing only a pair of soft pants. _¿Qué se está encendiendo? _He asked lazily, as though he were just waking up.

"You wanted the house cleaned, Raul," the younger of Oliver's guards said crisply. "Your _primo_ sent the maid."

Raul looked at Oliver, who was trying his best to keep his gaze on the flagstone in the front stoop. _"Bueno. _Come on in." As the small party entered, Oliver tried to get a look around, hoping to find some idea as to where Reid was. "Just leave the bedroom—my _querido, _he's sleeping. Put him through a workout last night, I did…"

"Raul, enough," the older guard snapped. "Darius has a special shipment coming in, and he wants you to process it personally."

"Special shipment?" the young man asked.

_Special shipment?_ Oliver wondered. _What's so special about it?_

"One piece, a personal one, like this _pedazo de mierda puto_ here," the older man said simply, his bottle-brush mustache wriggling slightly in anticipation. "I've seen photos…a looker, this one…"

_Dear God, _Oliver thought. _They're kidnapping another one, like Reid and me…_

"Yeah," the younger guard seconded, his eyes shining with jealousy. "I'd like a go with that one, no question."

The idea that these men were talking about another human being like that made Oliver want to vomit. It wasn't until he moved slightly that anyone remembered he was listening.

"Get to work, _puto_!" the older man, whom Oliver thought of as his main overseer, demanded, knocking Oliver on his side. The investigator reached quickly for the bucket of soapy water that had been left, and he once again pressed a thin cloth to tile.

"Mmmm," Raul said. "What time is this shipment due?"

"A couple hours. You'd better get ready."

The sound of Raul's apparent displeasure made Oliver's heart soar. _He'll leave,_ the nude man realized. _He'll leave, and Heckle and Jeckle there will head back outside—they don't like being in the room when I 'work'…_ A plan started to take shape in Oliver's mind, but everything depended on what might happen next.

----

Reid wanted to die. He wanted someone to simply shoot him in the head or stab him through the heart—and, in all honesty, either one was preferable. He ran a hand over his abused tongue, trying to spit out the horrible taste of Raul's feet that lingered on it.

"_Come now, _querido,_" _the older man had said. "Prove to me you're willing to submit…"

The young profiler had balked. He wanted nothing more to do with this depraved, incorrigible man's disgusting games. _"No,"_ he'd whispered, softly shaking his head. _"I won't."_

That statement had cost him dearly. Reid remembered nearly drowning in the bottom of the toilet, his head being let up for only mere seconds at a time. A part of him had hoped Raul would succeed in killing him, but then his thoughts drifted back to Oliver. _He's suffered so much, and on account of me,_ Reid had thought. _I can't give up…_

Finally Raul had released Reid's head from the bottom of the water-filled basin. _"Now, are you going to do what I say?" _the man demanded. Reid's only reply was a series of splutters and the vigorous nodding of his head. _"Good,_" Raul had said. _"Then get to it."_

The 'cleaning' of his captor's feet was just one of several intimate acts Reid had been forced to perform throughout the night, and by the time Raul had tired from both the activity and the wine he'd drunk earlier Reid wanted to just let him end his life where he was compelled to sit. However, Raul had pulled back the covers and motioned Reid to climb into bed, and the profiler had obeyed, his skin crawling as Raul pressed his bare skin against the trembling captive. As a result, Reid barely slept, worried that Raul might catch a second wind.

_I can't take much more of this,_ Reid thought as he heard Raul go downstairs to answer the door. The sounds of voices floated up the stairwell, and the open door was just too tempting to ignore. The profiler gingerly picked himself up from the bed, crawling across the soft mattress and gently standing on his own two feet. He then tried to get as close as he dared, knowing full well that there was only one exit out of the house. The hushed sound of the 'leash' rattling against the bedclothes served as a reminder to the agent that he was not out of the woods yet.

"_Get to work, _puto!_"_ a harsh voice snapped, and the thick sound of something falling rang through Reid's ears. He cringed a little, realizing that the 'something' that fell was Oliver. _Why's he here?_ Reid wondered, and then the memory hit him like a freight train—Raul had mentioned something about using his 'primo's puto' to have the house cleaned.

_So that's what they're using Oliver for,_ Reid realized. _He's a 'domestic.' _A part of him wanted to change places with his friend in a heartbeat, but then he thought of the pail of scraps that had yet to be taken out. The thought of being forced to eat it made his stomach churn.

Just then the sound of footsteps pattered up the carpeted stairs, and Raul burst through the doorway, his mood dark. "What are you doing up?" he snapped, and Reid cringed a little at the thought of more pain.

"I-I just…"

"Get back to bed!" Raul ordered, his finger jabbing at the space where Reid was supposed to sleep. When Reid didn't move fast enough for his liking, Raul physically lifted the young captive off of the ground and tossed him back on the giant four-poster, his eyes flashing in irritation. "Now I've got to work…some special thing or another…" Reid quickly picked up on the sarcasm in his captor's voice, indicating that whatever the 'chore' was it was not one Raul wanted to be bothered with. "And when I get done, it's more learning for you."

Reid's eyes grew wide. He hoped against all hope that the 'chore' took a lot of time to finish. His eyes turned in surprise as he heard the sound of his 'leash' being fiddled with, and once Raul tossed on his shirt and stormed out Reid tried to sit up, but found he could not pick his head up from the pillow. His 'leash' had been shortened to restrict his movement to just the immediate area he occupied—in short, Reid couldn't leave the bed.

_Now why…_ Reid wondered as he heard the door downstairs slam shut, and the sound of faint voices talking in Spanish just outside. _Why would he do that…?_

A few minutes passed, and Reid heard an array of sounds wafting up from the kitchen—chairs moving, water sloshing, the sound of skin picking up from a wet spot that had just finished drying, making a soft _shicking_ sound. Then the sound of soft footsteps crept up the carpeted stairs, and the door creaked open.

"Reid?" a familiar voice said, whispering.

"Oliver!" Reid cried, his voice thin and trembling with joy. "Oliver, how did you…?"

"I'm supposed to 'clean' the place," his friend said quickly, crawling onto the bed. "Come on, get up—we're getting out of here…"

"I can't," Reid said, his voice betraying his fear and frustration. "The 'leash'…he shortened it…"

Oliver walked over to the other side of the bed, and Reid could hear his friend's fingers running over the length of chain that fastened the young profiler in place. "Damn," he said. "It's too thick to break."

"There's a key, Oliver," Reid said, remembering suddenly. "It should be hanging on the wall over there…"

Oliver hurried quietly towards the spot where Reid was pointing, but his eyes were searching to no avail. "There's nothing here," the investigator whispered.

"He must have taken it," Reid said sadly. "He knew you would come up."

"Damn straight," Oliver said, his mind racing. He looked around the room in search of something to break the bar in the headboard with—it looked worn from someone pulling on the chain, but it was still quite thick. "If I can find something heavy enough…"

Reid's eyes scanned as much of the room as they could, and he nearly screamed when he found something that might work. "How about that rock over there?" the profiler asked, pointing at a large doorstop next to the wall. "It looks heavy enough…"

"Might work," Oliver said, cautiously inching towards the object. "Worth a try…" As soon as Oliver picked up the tool, he hurried back and began connecting it with the wooden bar, being sure to strike only the worn part of the restraint anchor. It took several tries, but the wood finally gave, allowing Oliver to slide the chain out from the bar and Reid to pick his head up.

"Thanks," Reid said gratefully, rubbing his sore neck. "Now let's get out of here before…"

"Put these on," Oliver said, raiding Raul's closet. "Those might fit." The profiler looked at the soft pants and the thin shift he'd been forced to wear the night before. Without hesitation, he threw them on, elated that he could finally cover himself.

Just as Oliver managed to toss on an oversized shirt—the pants were a lost cause—the front door downstairs creaked open. "Where are you, _puto_?" the prisoners heard the older guard call out. "You finished?"

"Shit," Oliver said. Thinking fast, he pulled off the shirt and said, "Reid, here's what you have to do…"


	28. Freedom Exists

**Usual disclaimers. The plot thickens again. Sorry it's so short.  


* * *

**

"Where are you, you _saco sin valor de mierda?" _the older guard called out, his heavy footsteps drawing closer to the stairwell.

The next few minutes were critical. Oliver slunk down the steps again, naked and showing submission. "I-I was cleaning the bath…"

"Hmm. Hurry up about it, _puto_—you don't have all day," the guard snapped. A large boot connected with the metal bucket Oliver's soapy water resided in, causing it to spill all over the tile floor. "Oops," he chuckled evilly. "My mistake."

Oliver crawled down to the pull bar on the oven door and removed a small dish towel. He used the cloth to mop up the mess, being sure to 'chase' the water near the door as he did so. _Reid, don't screw this up,_ he thought feverishly. _It's our only chance…_

"Get away from the door, _esclavo,_" the guard snapped. "You got no business being there."

The investigator continued to mop up the water, hoping to raise the older man's ire enough to draw him closer. Soon Oliver's tactics were rewarded, and the sound of footsteps clamored against the floor. "I thought I told you to move, _puto,_" the guard snapped, picking up Oliver's 'leash' and yanking on it so hard the younger man thought his neck would break. "When are you going to…" Suddenly, there was a muffled but deafening thud, and the grip on the 'leash' slackened as the chain clattered to the floor.

"Nice," Oliver said, carefully picking himself up and standing on his own two feet. "Oh, my God…"

"Are you hurt?" Reid asked, his eyes nervously flickering between the door and the sight of his friend stretching out his stiff limbs.

"Nah, just stiff," Oliver replied. "Damn asshole had me on my hands and knees practically every second since I got here. God, I miss my feet."

"Come on. He'll be back soon," Reid said quickly, tossing Oliver the oversized shirt. The older man put it on, glad to see it covered a few important things on his person. Remembering evasive protocol, Oliver cracked the door open a hair in an attempt to gain some insight as to where the other guard might be.

_Come on, come on, _the investigator thought. _Where are you, you pain in the ass?_

Jus then the younger guard came around the side, smoking a cigarette and looking bored. The man's sizable frame turned towards the house, his face set in a blasé expression. "Curtis? Where are you, _ese?_ Come on, move that _puto—_we don't have all day…"

_Come closer, _Oliver thought. _Just a little closer…_

"Curtis?" The man turned the knob and slowly began pushing the door inside, and as soon as he saw the fallen figure of his friend on the floor he felt a powerful _thud_ hit his skull.

"Thank God," Oliver breathed. "Nice shot, Reid."

Reid stood there, a little dumbfounded. The doorstop rock he held in his hands fell to the floor, a section of it speckled in blood. "Did I…"

"Doubt it, but I'm not about to find out. Come on. We've got to get out of here."

The two fugitives stepped into the warm sunshine, standing on their own feet as men rather than objects of abuse. The wind picked up slightly, and the smell of salt air was enough to bolster them into taking the first steps towards freedom.

"This way," Reid said, pointing towards a thick cluster of trees.

Oliver stood silently a minute. "Hurry up," Reid pressed, his voice growing more frantic.

"We've got to go to the barn," the older man said finally.

"Are you insane?!"

"Listen—they were telling that Raul guy there was a 'special shipment' coming in. We've got to get it first."

"Special shipment?" Reid hissed as Oliver began darting towards an old chicken coop, his eyes searching for a patrol that might hinder their escape. "What kind of shipment?"

"From the way they were talking, I think a girl," Oliver said. "I can't leave a girl here to suffer like we have, Reid: I just…I can't."

Reid heaved a giant sigh, then began putting his brilliant mind to work. "Well, Raul said something about 'processing' something," he remembered vaguely, wondering if his mind wasn't filling in blanks that didn't exist. "If that's the case, we need to get into the basement of that barn. They'll take her there for inspection and cleaning."

"Great," Oliver said. "Question is, how are we getting in there?"

The two men searched for a plausible way in, then saw something pull up next to the grand mansion. It was a van. "Probably the same one we came in," Oliver reasoned. From the back of the vehicle the two saw a long white object being carried out of the back and up the steps to the 'receiving room.'

"Come on," Oliver said, pulling Reid close as the two made a run for it. "He keeps the back door open—likes the sun coming in off the receiving room," the investigator said as they scurried toward the other end of the house.

"The 'receiving room'?" Reid wondered.

"Mmm…think a giant foyer or parlor, just in the back," Oliver said, making sure to stick close to the walls inside of the grand estate. "Over here," he said, pointing at a black and white tiled room with a single chair sitting in the middle. The sounds of men walking along the corridors made the two émigrés scurry towards a pair of giant decorative statues, using the abstract figures as cover while Darius's 'employees' brought their 'package' into the spacious area inside.

"_Bueno, bueno!"_ the dark-haired ringleader chortled, the sound of absolute pleasure dripping from his voice. "Go ahead, uncover her," he ordered. "I want to see…"

Oliver stole a look from behind the door. The 'package' was covered in white linen, and there were soft, sad sounds that emanated from underneath. As the linen shroud fell to the floor, Oliver's breath hitched at what he saw: a thin, lithe little girl no more than thirteen or fourteen. Her hands were bound, as were her ankles, with a strip of white cloth that seemed to hold them fast.

"_Buenos dias," _Darius said. "You are even lovelier than your photographs, my dear."

"Please," the little girl begged, her voice choked with tears. "Please, I want to go home…"

Darius murmured something to an associate standing nearby. Then he said, in a louder tone, "Take her to her room, and see that she's settled. We'll pick up later tonight. And find that _puto—_I want him as far from her as possible!"

Oliver flashed a quick glance at Reid, who was completely aghast. 'Now what?' the older man saw his friend say silently, moving only his lips.

'We get her too,' Oliver said, also silently. 'And get her out of here!'


	29. Waiting for a Savior

**Usual disclaimers. The boys are still going strong...!

* * *

**

"Carlos Pena was a monster, but I think he was a monster created out of environment and upbringing rather than just plain old psychotic," Chase began as the teams sat in the borrowed conference room.

"What makes you say that?"

"We had a complete workup of the guy at the time of his death," the woman said, her eyes searching for something. "Hey, there should be a…"

"No hard copies. Archives at the Miami field office suffered water and smoke damage from a fire about three years ago," Emily said, her face showing her displeasure.

"We've got Kyle's documents, though," Morgan quickly added, having been flipping through the thin sheaf of prints.

"Okay. Here's what's _not_ in that file—Pena grew up in a 'organized' society, if you catch me. His dad was a leg-breaker for a local _jefe_ that moved up to 'running the girls' as Carlos grew older."

"So Pena's already got a low opinion of women, possibly young children," Rossi mused. "He sees them being bought and sold, thinks it's perfectly legitimate."

"Right. So, Carlos grows up, eventually begins working for the same _jefe._ Only Carlos notices there's a market for young men as well as women."

"Unique," Agent Gibbs remarked.

"That's what about a dozen agencies thought, too," Chase admitted. "He also learned from working for the _jefe_ that raids were common, and that cash flow was as important as location of 'goods'." Her face tightened as she said the last word. "I mean, the only reason anyone picked up on him was because a good portion of Little Havana started missing a lot of young people—just…_poof!_ And they're gone."

"No one filed reports."

"Here's where Pena was smart," McGee said, calling over from the borrowed laptop. "He only targeted illegals, mainly Cubans."

"It's perfect," Morgan said. "He's got Cuban background; speaks the language, looks the part."

"Plus illegals aren't as likely to file missing persons reports," Gibbs added. "Too afraid they'll be deported."

"But why the age limits?" Emily wondered. "I mean, if he's going after an invisible populace, he could have his pick, and we all know that the more 'pure' the 'merchandise' the better the profit."

"We asked the same question, Em," Chase said. "The guy from your office back then said it was either because he has kids of his own and didn't like the thought of selling them or because Carlos was afraid that even the threat of deportation wouldn't stop parents from filing a report. As we know, finding missing children is a huge priority, especially when a lot go missing from a particular area at once."

"That's true," Hotch said. "Usually wealthy children are shown preference, and poorer or minority children slide through the cracks. But too many disappearances of a particular type or in a specific area is like asking for trouble."

"You worked with the BAU before?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, but you weren't there. This was before most of you showed up on ten."

"How'd you get involved?" Gibbs wanted to know. "Not being official and all…"

"One of the agencies was used to working with me. They needed someone to go in and question the families—someone who wasn't a cop."

"Which you're not."

"Right. I can't deport them, so they're more willing to open up." Chase sighed. "Which is strange, because I barely speak Spanish. Anyway, what we got were tales of these young people trying to find work, some looking to get into the arts—modeling, singing, you name it."

"Usual lures," Rossi said. "Once they get in, though, they learn the truth too late."

"Like I said, a dozen agencies and still this guy manages to run his operation for about two years after we picked up on him. How long he ran it before we got involved is anyone's guess—of the remainder of his employees, no one talked."

"And the barn fire?"

"Pena learned that setting up on small uninhabited keys was a great way to hide his 'merchandise'—we found a couple of abandoned spots he frequented—but he had to have a place to sell on the mainland. We managed to hit just as he was preparing for a 'sale'."

"Finding anything, McGee?" Gibbs called over to the two figures hunched over laptops.

"No…wait, here's something," the round agent said quickly. "Looks like Pena was married at one time."

"Was, McGee?"

"Uh…damn. She died about twelve years ago, Boss. Cancer."

"There goes that lead," Emily said. "And we're no closer to finding Reid or Oliver."

The thought of Chase's face after she exited the office earlier put Morgan into a silent fury. There was something happening to his friends out there, something no one wanted to tell him. "What did Garcia show you, Chase?" he asked, phrasing it as a question but toning it as something else entirely.

Chase fell instantly silent. She shook her head. "You don't want to see, Morgan. They wouldn't want it either."

"What?"

Hotch glared at his subordinate. "It's a video of Reid and Oliver. _Together._"

The implication was enough to set everyone's minds clear. "My God," Emily said. McGee's face sank down level with the computer screen, and the profilers knew the young man was turning green with disgust.

"Seems whoever's picked up the family business is more depraved than the father," Rossi said dryly, his own face a mask to his true emotions.

"Wait—what did you say?" McGee asked, his head instantly popping up.

"I said, whoever took over the family business…"

"That's it!" The next sounds were a flurry of keystrokes and the sound of a computer whirring like lightening. "Abby," he said, pulling up the forensic tech on a large flat screen in the front of the room. "Were you able to come up with any DNA at all, on anything?"

"I was just about to call," the raven-haired woman said, shaking her pigtails. "The print I lifted off Dr. Reid's gun—no match. _But,_ I was able to get some epithelials from the stock, and…"

"No match," Hotch said flatly.

"Wrong," Abby said, now well into her 'demonstration.' She pressed a button on her phone and the sound of a connection was heard. "Ducky, tell them what you told me…"

"Well, it seems our Mr. Pena managed to have offspring," a well-cultured Scottish voice said, its tone a little tinny from the processing of the machine that carried it. "I was able to find some viable, uncharred skin samples to send to Abby…"

"And there's a match at thirteen loci," Abby finished. "Whoever touched that gun was a child of our dead psycho."

"Can you tell the sex?" Hotch asked.

"No. But I can say that when you find the person who touched the gun, you'll find your boys," the tech chirped.

"Terrific, Abbs. Great work."

"Don't mention it." The screen turned black.

"So Pena's got kids," Chase said blandly. "Great. The cycle continues."

Just then the door burst open and Ziva hurried in, along with the man calling himself Sam. "What?" Gibbs bellowed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"This is our case, now," Ziva said.

"How?"

"I got a call from a retired Navy buddy of mine," Sam said. "One of the lieutenants in his old squad had an 'incident' last night…"

"A kidnapping?" Morgan said, rising to his feet.

"His daughter, Cassie," the man replied, nodding slowly. "She's thirteen. Tomas--the lieutenant--walked in the house just as the kidnappers were walking out, and Cassie managed to scream. By the time he and his wife were able to get there, she was gone. Said he was afraid to call the authorities or even you guys," Sam explained, looking at Gibbs and Ziva.

"Go, get statements," Gibbs said sharply. Looking at the pair, who were now out of breath from the first run, he barked, "Now!"

"There's more," Ziva said. "Cassie's grandfather was an agent on scene the day of the barn fire."

"Who?"

"Jorge Aroya."

"He was DEA," Chase said, instantly remembering the name. "Aside from me, he's the only one left to remember…"

That statement caught everyone's attention. "What?" Morgan asked, incredulous.

"I told you, this wasn't an easy one. A lot of suicides took place shortly after, as well as commitments and sudden 'transfers' to unlisted locations. Jorge still lives here in Miami, and remains listed. He'd be easy enough to find."

"We're going to find out what he remembers," Rossi said, grabbing his coat. "Come on, Chase."

----

The plaster from the abstract sculpture was beginning to bother Reid's nose. It felt like hours that the two fugitives had been forced to hide behind the decorative freestanding pieces, but every time they tried to make a move for the open-air winding staircase, another 'associate' would walk into the hall and force them back into hiding.

As the sun began to sink in the windows, the traffic of people stopped and Oliver beckoned Reid to hurry as they crept up the stairs. The second floor of the grand mansion was ornate, and it put the profiler in mind of the estate that Mo Li's parents operated in Pennsylvania.

"She's got to be in here somewhere," Oliver said, his voice merely a breath on the still air. "Split the hall and signal me if you hear anything."

The two agents began pressing their ears to the large teak doors, hoping to detect some trace of life behind each one. About halfway down the hall, Oliver's hand shot up as it motioned Reid to come closer. "Listen," he said.

Reid stood as close as he dared to the thick barrier, his ear wedged tightly against the solid wood. Oliver stood facing him, allowing each one to scout behind the other for possible guards. The sounds of voices floated through the door, faint at first and then growing louder.

"Come on, _princesa_," the voice of Raul complained. "Turn around and look at me."

There was silence at first, and then Reid could just barely make out the rustling of stiff fabric.

"You have to eat."

More rustling.

"Fine. Starve, see what I care," Raul said finally, tossing something onto to the floor with a thunderous _crash_. "Not my problem." Reid's eyes widened as he realized that the fast-moving footsteps were headed right towards them.

"Quick, hide!" he hissed, and both he and Oliver managed to open the adjacent door and dive into the empty room just as Raul stormed out of the little girl's. "Stupid _perra,_" Raul grumbled aloud to himself. "Darius'll have to 'teach' her quick to follow orders…"

As soon as the sounds fo Raul's footsteps and complaints fell out of earshot, Oliver gently cracked the door of the dark sanctuary they had sought shelter in and swept the area with his eyes. There were no signs of guards or other 'staff' to be found.

"Come on," the older man hissed, motioning Reid to follow. To their surprise, the door wasn't locked. _Must've been in a hurry,_ Oliver thought as the door admitted them soundlessly.

The room was furnished much like the one Raul kept—a giant four-poster in the middle of the room, plush mattress and bedclothes, even a private bathroom on one side. Near the bathroom door, the remains of what looked like the girl's dinner lay haphazardly, spilling out from the chipped porcelain and shattered glass of the dishes and serving tray. The floor was parquet, and it felt warm under Oliver's feet as he crept towards the crying figure that lay curled in a ball on the bed. As he reached the bed, he got onto his knees, so as not to scare the girl once he roused her attention. "Hey," he whispered softly, just enough to be heard. The girl spun, startled and wide eyed.

"Please, just let me go," a thin voice cried, its owner's face streaming with tears. "I promise, I won't tell…"

"Hey, it's okay," Oliver said, swallowing his own tears. "I'm not going to hurt you…"

The girl stared at Oliver, whose half-clad figure was made even more frightening by the diminishing sunlight that draped the room. "What are you going to do to me?" she squeaked, terrified.

"Nothing, sweetie," Oliver said gently. "My friend and I are going to get you out of here and take you home." Oliver nodded towards Reid, who was busy rifling through the available drawers for a key or a paper clip or a hairpin of some kind to pick locks with.

"H-home? M-my home?"

"Yes, honey, your home. What's your name?"

"Cassie," the little girl replied, the fear slowly receding from her face. "Cassie Aroyo."

"Well, Cassie, I'm Oliver. The guy over there looking through the drawers is Spencer…"

"Like the detective?" Cassie asked, her eyes shining. "My _abuelo,_ he reads those stories with me."

"Yeah, like the detective," Oliver said, smiling a little. "In fact, that's what we do—we're detectives." The older man smiled a little as Reid's head turned slightly, his face a mirror to his obvious question.

"Then how come…?"

"The people who took you, Cassie; they're mad at our friend. So they took us too."

"But...you're a boy," Cassie reasoned. "You could…you could fight them."

"It's a little more complicated than that, but what's important right now is that you trust us, okay?" Oliver said. The girl had a point, but he didn't have enough time to get into the particulars of his and Reid's abduction just then.

"Aha!" Reid cried, pulling something out of a drawer that Oliver could barely make out in the blinding light of the sunset. The profiler crept over towards Oliver and the little girl, and asked her to hold out her hands. Cassie complied, showing that her hands had been unbound. "My leg," she whispered, picking up her right leg. It had been fastened to the metal bed frame by a length of chain, much as Reid's neck had been earlier.

Reid picked up Cassie's ankle, trying to get a look at the despicable shackle that held her fast. "There's a keyhole here," he said finally, "but it's going to take some precision work…"

"Get cracking, Reid," Oliver said. "We're running out of time." As he said this, the sky outside the window turned a brilliant shade of red and the room began to grow dark. Moments later, an alarm was sent up as Raul ran back to the house, screaming something in Spanish that Oliver couldn't make out. Cassie's face turned white.

"What is it, Cassie?" Oliver said, squeezing the girl's hand. "What's wrong?"

"Outside—the man said that someone escaped…"

Reid and Oliver stole a brief look. "Anything else?" Oliver asked. "My Spanish is a little rusty…"

"He said he wanted his 'lover' back, and that there were two bodies in his house," Cassie translated as the sounds of footsteps began to quicken on the floor. "What happened…"

"Damn!" Reid said, extracting the hairpin he'd been using to try and pick the lock. "It's useless," he said, showing Oliver the badly bent object. "It needs a key…"

Just then the door to the room swung open, and the lights blazed on as the switch was thrown.

"The _hell_ do you think you're doing, _puto?!_" Darius screamed as Oliver stood in front of Cassie. The two cornered agents remained motionless, and the whole room began to fill with armed guards and angry men. "Thought you'd steal from me again, hmm?"

Reid looked up at Oliver, having been unable to stand up in time. _What now?_ his wide brown eyes were clearly saying. Next to him, Cassie had begun to cry.

Oliver took a deep breath. Then he spoke.


	30. Right Here, Right Now

**Some dark stuff. Be warned. Plus usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Interesting," Oliver said, taking slight steps backward. The room was filled with people just itching to cause him pain, as well as the two other prisoners that were mere inches from his frame. The sound of shotguns and smaller pieces being cocked rang through the tension-filled room, as did the sound of Cassie's soft sobs. Oliver nudged Reid's legs, which were folded underneath his thin skeleton. "Keep at it," he whispered, trying to get his point across with his eyes rather than his lips.

"Really?" Darius laughed as he moved closer to the trio. Cassie curled up into a ball once more, trying to position herself squarely behind Oliver's back. "What's that?"

"That you'd have to prove yourself to a helpless little girl," Oliver said simply. "I mean, Reid and I here, we already know how you operate, but _raping _a _child…_"

A shot fired off, and the smell of cordite singed Oliver's nose as the explosion of the bullet rang through his ears, the projectile wedging itself deep into the wall just a few feet away from his head. Cassie screamed, and Reid tried in vain to hold the girl's chained ankle still enough to work the lock. "Take your hands off her, _esclavo,_" Darius ordered, pressing the business end of his rifle flush with the base of the profiler's skull. "Right now, take your hands off her."

Reid stopped working the lock. However, he didn't let go of her ankle.

"You two think you're clever," Darius said snidely. "Pull a scam that loses us money, try and escape, and then attempt to steal my prize away from me." The dark-haired man's wild eyes flickered towards two of his 'associates,' who slowly started moving around the bed towards Cassie.

"Get away from me!" the girl cried. "Leave me alone! Let me go!" Cassie's slight frame twisted violently, searching both for some sort of escape and for some protection from the men trying to hurt and defile her. Before Oliver knew it, her small hands were clenched around his waist as though her life depended on him. The investigator snatched the little girl up quickly in his arms, making sure to cover as much of her trembling body as he could with his own.

"You're not going to hurt her," Oliver hissed, seething in anger at these men who were putting innocent people in such terrible positions. "She's just a little girl, for Christ's sake!"

As soon as the words escaped Oliver's lips Reid began reeling from a savage blow to the side of the head. "Such sacrilege," Darius clucked. "My cousin, he won't like this…" The next thing Oliver heard was the sound of Reid being forcibly yanked away from the bed and held close by one of the guards, a gleaming knife blade a mere hair's breadth from his slender throat. "Do I cut his throat, or do you give up the girl?"

No one moved. No one drew a single breath. The tension was so thick anyone in the room could have carved it with an axe. Oliver pulled Cassie into a giant hug, his eyes connecting with those of his friend.

"There's a limit to my patience, _puto,_" Darius warned. "Which is it?"

-----

"We're looking for people dealing in people, Barry."

"Well, then you've come to the wrong place," the spike-haired money launderer said simply. "I mean, jewels, cash, art, guns—hell, I can even get you some 'unique' items not easy to move, but I draw the line at people."

"Yeah, but some of your contacts _don't,_" Michael said, walking along the dock with Fiona and the little man. "And we need to know."

"Come on, Barry," Fiona said, slipping into her most _come-hither_ voice. "You must know _someone…_"

"Hey, enough," Barry said, turning to face the pair. "I know, I know, I don't and I'm on a certain 'list'."

"Precisely," Michael said dryly. "So just tell us now and we'll keep the status quo."

Barry glanced furtively around, as if he were afraid there were black-clad lurkers hiding among the silent boats in the harbor or frogmen waiting to pull him under. "What kind?"

"Oh, this outfit's pretty specific," Michael told him. "Likes girls and young men, legal but not tired out."

"Men? Jesus, Mike…"

"Not my rules. You know of anyone running that kind of operation?"

Barry stood still a moment. "Can't say I do, but there _is_ this guy that gave me the creeps about a month ago…"

"Do tell," Fiona said, the interest practically dripping off her tongue.

"This kid—and by 'kid' I mean twenty-five or so—starts looking for a particular item. Comes round my way, wonders if I can get a couple for him."

"What was the item?"

Barry looked sheepish. "Metal collars," he said. "Like the kind the bondage nuts wear?"

"Available in any S&M shop," Fiona said simply. Michael looked at her quizzically. "I've been exploring a bit since us, Michael."

"An-y-way," Michael said, trying hard to put the thought of Fiona in chains and leather out of his mind, "Why is this kid looking for them on the black market?"

"He wants special ones—the kind that don't come off. Very expensive, too—especially when they have to be removed." Barry looked at the ground, wishing it would swallow him up. "I'm telling you, sicko."

"Not particularly," Fiona replied. "It's often supposed to show a sign of willing submission."

"I think this guy wanted to have it engraved or something. I mean, those things aren't cheap in the store, and he wanted it customizable."

"Got a name?"

"Kid called himself Raul. Only name I got. Mexican, maybe Cuban, but like cocoa butter rather than dark chocolate."

"Raul who likes bondage," Michael said. "Okay. You hear anything else…"

"I know, I know—call you. Deal."

"Thanks, Barry. Appreciate the business." As the rotund man strolled off, Michael pulled out his cell phone. "Sam? Some interesting information from our personal Yellow Pages…"

----

Sam closed up his phone. The trip to Coral Gables had been particularly strenuous, considering who was driving. "Jesus, lady—you trainin' for NASCAR or something?"

"What, that?" Ziva asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. "That was normal…"

_Dear God,_ the older man thought. The two ascended the steps and knocked on the front door, an oversized French variety painted a cheerful red color. _They stuck me with someone even crazier than Fiona!_

A moment later, a short woman answered the door, her eyes obviously red from crying. "Can I help you?"

"Sam Axe," Sam said by way of introduction. "This is Ziva…"

"David," the Israeli woman finished.

"Captain Rodgers mentioned me?" Sam added.

"Tomas!" the little woman called out, and soon the figure of a well-built, clean cut sailor joined his wife. "This is Sam," the woman said quickly. "The Captain said he could help…"

"Sir," the troubled man said, extending a hand. "I can't thank you enough…"

"May we come in?" Ziva asked, her eyes constantly moving.

"Of course! Of course," Lt. Aroyo said, ushering the pair inside. "I'm sorry…it's been…we're a little out of sorts…"

"Lieutenant, may I ask why you did not call the authorities?" Ziva asked.

The man sighed. "I was afraid," he said. "Cassie, she's our only child…"

"Was there any kind of call; any demand for ransom or the like?" Sam wondered.

"Nothing," the lieutenant said.

"What happened last night?" Ziva inquired.

"Celia and I came home from our Friday night out," Tomas Aroyo explained. "We left Cassie by herself—she's thirteen, and we're only two houses down in case there's any problem."

"We play cards with another couple, the Botswains," Celia Aroyo clarified.

"You leave her alone often?"

"Just on Fridays, and she knows the numbers to call. If it's a real emergency, like a fire, she can just run over if she needs to."

"Have you noticed anyone strange loitering around the house, perhaps following you or Cassie when you go out?" Ziva asked.

Both Aroyos shook their heads. "Not that I know of, but then I'm working a lot. I just got back from the Gulf a month ago," the lieutenant admitted.

"There was a van, the last week," Celia Aroyo said, remembering. "It was parked at different points on the street…"

"You're sure it was the same van?" Sam asked.

"Yes. There was a rust spot in the back door—a large one, the size of a pancake."

Ziva scribbled into a notebook. "Anything else?"

"I got a glimpse of one of the men who took Cassie—he was dark, maybe Cuban? I could be wrong, though…"

"Lt., Mrs. Aroyo, what do you know about a man named Carlos Pena?"

"Pena? My father talks about him sometimes," the lieutenant replied. "His one big case. But, the way I heard the story, he died in that fire."

"He did," Ziva assured them. "I saw the photographs."

"Then how…?"

"Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you? Or you, ma'am?" Sam asked, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"No one," the couple said in unison.

"That you know of?"

"Yes," Lt. Aroyo said. "Now, how are you going to help find my daughter?"

Ziva picked up her kit. "If you could show me where her room is?" she asked, her tone all business.


	31. The End of the Innocence

**All right--Darius is really beginning to scare _me_, and that's saying something. Dark, dark, disturbing stuff here, folks--skip if you're faint of heart. Plus usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Don't," Oliver said, his voice beginning to tremble. He tried to keep eye contact with Reid, to keep the younger man from trying to sacrifice himself to save the girl. Soft brown eyes blinked rapidly as the metal blade pressed against the profiler's exposed throat, and a heaving sigh told Oliver that Reid was prepared to give his life to spare Cassie from the humiliation and pain that they had suffered. "Please, don't make me do this," Oliver begged, clutching Cassie even tighter.

"_Make _you? _Puto, _you brought this on yourself," Darius said simply. The sounds of feet shifting underneath several loads of weight echoed off the ornate walls, and a sharp gasp escaped Reid's lips as he was jerked closer to his possible executioner. "Now, decide, or _I'll_ make the choice for you."

Oliver's mind reeled. He couldn't willingly allow this psychotically depraved man to abuse a child, especially a defenseless little girl who was counting on Oliver to help her. On the other hand, he couldn't allow these men to take innocent lives as a means of furthering their methods of fear and control…

"It's okay, Oliver," Reid whispered. He closed his eyes and waited for the end to come. The man holding him pulled on his hair a little, priming Reid's neck for the swiftest and cleanest method of severing his carotid artery possible. Cassie's sobs grew louder, and she tightly closed her eyes so as not to have to watch one of the men who had tried to rescue her being murdered in front of her. Oliver swallowed thickly, his whole frame shaking with great concern for both his friend and the frightened girl he held in his arms.

"Fine," Darius said, shifting his glance to Reid's captor. "Dispatch him. Raul will just have to get another…"

The blade pulled back, ready to strike its primed target.

"Stop!" Oliver shouted, his eyes full of tears. "Please, stop. I-I give up."

The knife pulled away from Reid's throat, and Oliver winced as the tall young man was tossed to the floor like yesterday's newspaper. Reid's restrained cry reverberated through Oliver's ears, and the sounds of heavy feet treading quickly towards him made the investigator quickly whisper something into the little girl's ear.

"No matter what, I'm going to get you out of here," Oliver promised. "We both will. But we all have to hang on, okay?"

"Don't let them hurt me, please," Cassie begged. "Don't let them…"

"Not if I can help it," Oliver promised again. As he was forcibly dragged off of Cassie's quaking frame and pulled from the four-poster, he saw Reid staring at him from across the room, having been bound and compelled to his knees and held in place by three armed guards. Something hard and cylindrical pressed against Oliver's spine, and he too was roughly shoved to the floor. "On your knees, _esclavo,_" the guard said, almost spitting the words out like hot lead.

Oliver struggled as he fought to pick himself up. _If I'm going to die, I want it to be on my feet, _he thought as he felt cold metal once again biting into the flesh around his wrists.

Darius stepped closer to the chained girl, who was pulling her restraint to its limit in an attempt to inch away from the depraved man advancing towards her. "Don't…don't touch me," Cassie warned, her voice badly quivering.

The dark-haired man quickly grabbed Cassie's wrists and held them together so tightly the girl cried out in pain. "Like this, _mija_?" he asked with an air of cocky self-assurance.

"Leave her alone!" Oliver yelled. He got a blow to the head for his effort.

"Or what, _esclavo_?" the sick man chortled. "You don't get it, do you? I _own_ you. Neither you nor this little _mujerzuela _here even _breathes_, I don't give my say so." Darius's long fingers made their way underneath Cassie's neck, brushing the soft skin that dwelt there very gently. "Come closer, _mija,_" he said, his voice a mixture of authority and mock-gentleness.

"No!" Cassie shouted. "Get _away _from me!"

The girl's act of defiance earned her a vicious slap across the face, and she winced in pain as more tears fell freely down her cheeks. "Understand something, _puta_," Darius hissed, making sure Cassie's face was directly in front of his own. "You don't cooperate, and things will go worse for you and your 'friends' over there. Now, _behave._"

Cassie quickly stole a glance toward both Oliver and Reid, who were directly across the room from each other. Both men nodded their heads slightly, indicating that she should do as she was told. Gingerly, she allowed Darius to run his hands over her neck and slightly developed chest.

"_Bueno,_" her assailant said lustily, his dark eyes greedily drinking in her small frame and features as though they were nectar. "Oh, yes…I think now you and me will have some 'fun,' eh, _mija?_"

"Please," Cassie whispered, her voice just loud enough for Oliver and Reid to hear. "Please, don't…"

"Come now," Darius said, pulling her cotton shirt off over her head and exposing much of her chest and stomach. "Show me what I want to see…"

The little girl's sobs grew louder as she tried to cover herself with her arms. There was a loud _thud_ to her right, and she cracked her clenched eyes open just enough to see Oliver struggling with his guards, trying to break free from their grip and run towards her. An angry voice floated up from her left. "Open your eyes, _perra,_" it said, shoving Reid forward and knocking his elbows onto the ground. "You watch." The implied threat was palpable to even a deaf man.

"Yes, yes," Darius said. "You _watch._"

"Close your eyes, Cassie," Oliver called out. "Close your eyes, and hold your breath." To her assailant, he called out, "Why not pick on someone your own size, eh?"

"Oh, but I _am,_ _puto,_" the man said evenly. "After all, you and your _amigo_ there seem a little bothered…"

_Jesus,_ Reid thought. _He's a lot smarter than he looks…_

"Now, _mija,_" Darius cooed, crawling nearly on top of the trembling, weeping figure below him. "You're going to show me a lot more…"

It was all Reid and Oliver could do to force themselves to remain motionless as Cassie cried out and screamed for help. Oliver tried once again to break free from his guards, but he merely found himself sprawled face down on the floor in pain and immediately jerked back to his knees. Reid tried to close his eyes, his disgust and shame at his helplessness evident.

"Open them up, _puto,_" his guard snapped. "Boss says you watch, you _watch." _

Oliver willed himself to remain focused on Cassie's eyes, giving the little girl someplace safe to focus her gaze on as the monster on top of her ran his disgusting fingertips over every inch of her barely clothed frame, murmuring something to Cassie in a dialect Oliver didn't know. As Darius's hands worked their way lower onto her torso and towards her waist, he fought the urge to both rip the man's head off and vomit inside of it.

"Don't," Cassie cried as she squirmed violently, trying desperately to throw the larger man off of her thin body. "No, please, don't…"

"Shh, _mija_," Darius said. "Remember, behave…"

The choked sob that escaped the little girl's throat broke Reid and Oliver's hearts. Darius resumed his 'exploration' of his 'prize,' taking his time over the parts of the girl that were still covered by her pajama pants. "Let's move these, hmm?" he said seductively, and Cassie wriggled fiercely as Darius took hold of the elastic waistband and began shove the cloth down towards her ankles. She picked up her hands and tried to bat and shove the intruding ones away from her underpants, only to have them collected in Darius's grasp again. "Fix this," he called out to his 'associates,' and one stepped forward with a length of white fabric that served as a tie.

"That's better," the depraved man said, satisfied that the girl wouldn't be able to fight him off. "Now, where were we?"

In desperation, Cassie tried to turn over onto her stomach. Her efforts were thwarted, however, by the sheer weight of her assailant sitting straddled on top of her.

"No, _mija,_" Darius clucked. "I want to see you."

"Sick bastard!" Oliver finally cried. "Just leave her alone!"

"Oh, like we did with you, _esclavo?_" Darius challenged. "Don't worry, you'll be 'cleaning up' that little mess you made…"

"They deserved it," Oliver spat.

"He didn't do it," Reid countered quickly. "I did."

"No, I did," Oliver said, glaring at his friend.

"I don't give a shit," Darius said. "If you weren't as much fun for my _primo_ and I as you are, I'd have you sold off. As it is Raul's itching to get his back for a little more 'education' in the bedroom…"

Reid's face turned green, and his heart sank like a stone.

Darius then let out a sigh of frustration. "Fuck it," he said. "Now I'm too worked up to 'play' anymore." He picked himself up off of his 'prize' and started for the door. "Make sure that _puto_ cleans up the mess, and then throw him in the hold. I'll deal with him further tomorrow."

"What about this one?" one of the guard asked, roughly nudging a sick-looking Reid.

"Take him back to his owner," Darius said simply. "He's gotten his punishment from me…"

Reid began to struggle as he was forcibly lifted from his position on the parquet floor and dragged towards the exit.

"Spencer!" Cassie called out, her arm trying to reach for the man who'd tried to release her. "No, please…"

A swift backhand across the face instantly sent Cassie flying backward onto the plush mattress. "Shut up, _puta,_" her guard said. "Get some sleep." Walking towards the pair of guards that were holding Oliver at his knees, he said, "You heard the boss. Make sure he cleans up, and stays away from the girl. If he fights, or disobeys, shoot him."

Oliver swallowed thickly as his guards stared down at him, a sickening gleam in their eyes.

"Nothing permanent, boys," the lead guard said. "He's too expensive for that." As soon as the man left, the remaining guards shoved Oliver towards the spilled food and broken dishes, handing him a towel and a metal bucket.

"You heard the man," one of them spat. "Now, get to work."


	32. Observation Slave

**Usual disclaimers. Some suggestion. I encourage the use of reader imagination. :)

* * *

**

"Jorge."

"Miss Davis." The Hispanic man stared through the weathered screen door, its paint peeling off in bright green chips. "It's been a long time."

"You know why we're here," Chase said, tipping her head slightly towards Rossi.

"Come in." The door swung open, and the pair were ushered towards a small, well-kept living room. On one wall stood a giant solid wood bookcase filled to the brim with hardcovers. Chase and Rossi sat down on a dated but serviceable sofa while the house's occupant took a high-backed rocking chair. "For my back," Jorge said simply. "Too much strain on it over the years."

Chase nodded. "You know about Cassie?"

"Tomas called. Wondered if there was anything I could do. Unfortunately, I'm at that age where the people I once knew are slowly taking residence in the ground rather than above it." He sighed, his face clearly worried for his granddaughter. "You would not be here, Chase, if you didn't know something."

"There was a reason I liked you, Jorge. Yes, we do know something, but you're going to have to help us," Chase said. She quickly made her introduction of Rossi, then said, "He and his people have a vested interest. They're okay."

"Your son?" Jorge asked, looking at the older agent. "I don't remember you there that day…"

"No, I wasn't there," Rossi clarified. "And the person missing is a colleague of mine—the 'baby of the family,' so to speak."

"Ah. And you, Chase?"

"Some sick bastard took one of my boys too…call him a 'close friend'," Chase said, her ire evident. "There's not a lot of time, Jorge."

"_Bueno._" The elderly man stood up from his rocker and crossed into a small room, returning in a few minutes with a small manila file folder. "I kept our documents—just copies, mind," he said, handing the file to Chase. "There wasn't a lot to work with in the first place."

"I remember." Chase and Rossi spread the file out in front of them on a pressboard coffee table, carefully looking at the photographs and the dossiers on each of the major players in the operation. "More detailed than mine," Chase admitted. "I only kept names and a few photographs."

"Those ones that survived, they've since moved on," Jorge said. "No forwarding address. The ones that went to hospital…"

"One of 'em died, right?" Rossi asked.

"How did you know?" the older man asked, surprised.

"How quickly?"

"Didn't last two days. The burns, the smoke…it was too much." Pointing to one other name, he said, "He was luckier."

"Esai Villareal," Chase read. "Any idea where he might be?"

"Last I heard he was living in Little Havana," Jorge said. "Married, has a son, a four year-old. Changed his name, though—was afraid someone would remember him from the operation and try to take him again."

Rossi pulled out his phone. "Garcia," he said quickly. "We need to find someone…" He gave the technician the particulars as Chase quickly snapped a picture of the photograph and sent it to her. "As fast as you can."

The sound of the phone hanging up let Chase know the woman was on it. "Jorge, something I never knew, but maybe you did—did Pena have any children?"

"Children? Probably dozens. Why?"

"Dozens?" Rossi queried.

"One of the things about Pena was that he wasn't above 'stocking his own shelves,' if you catch me," the man clarified. "Sick bastard. We found out he sold the babies on the black market too; pricey illegal adoptions. Worse yet, he wasn't above selling the mothers while they were pregnant to desperate couples who would then take the baby once it was born."

"Any _legitimate_ children?" Chase pressed.

The older man thought hard for a moment. "He was married, that much I know," Jorge said, "but as far as them having any children…well, it's possible." Closing his eyes, he tried to recall seeing any faces that might have resembled the slave dealer in the crowd on that fateful day. "There was one," he said finally, searching the photographs. "There, that one." Jorge pointed to a long, thin, caramel-colored youth that looked like he was in his very early twenties. "Possibly a relation of some sort—the resemblance is too great."

Picking up the photograph, Chase smiled thinly at the retired DEA agent. "Thanks," she said. "This'll help."

"Please, just find Cassie," Jorge said. "If we lose her to the likes of Pena's people…"

"We won't," Chase said. "That I can promise."

----

"I can't help you," Esai Cormier said simply through the screen door, trying not to make too much of a scene. "I have no idea what…"

"We know that six years ago your name was Esai Villareal, Mr. Cormier," Hotch said, just as simply. "We also know why you changed it."

"Please," the young man said, desperately looking back into the house. "My wife, my boy—they don't know…"

"We're not interested in making your past public, Mr. Cormier," Emily tried to convince him. "But we do need your help. People from the same group that did those things to you are now doing them to someone else—including a thirteen year-old girl."

The fear in Cormier's eyes was so palpable that the agents could feel it enveloping their own hearts. "A little girl?"

"Yes," Hotch replied. "And right now you're the only person that might be able to help us find her."

The young man took in deep breaths. Then he sighed. "Let me talk to my wife, tell her I'm going out," he said. The haunted look in his eyes never left. Hotch and Emily stood patiently, listening for the sounds of windows being shoved open or the back door slamming. After a few minutes, Cormier returned, saying, "Please, let's make this quick. I told my wife there was some trouble at work…"

"We'll be as quick as possible," Emily assured him as she led him to the back of the SUV.

-----

Oliver woke in the small, dirty room that he and Reid had been tossed inside after their 'processing.' The night had been a long one, and his mind couldn't leave the memory of the little girl that lay trapped upstairs, completely vulnerable and at the mercy of the debauched individual that kept them under lock and key for his own warped amusement.

As he lay on the cold dirt that made up the floor, Oliver recalled the events after Darius's departure from Cassie's 'room.' He'd had to clean the floor and then was whisked out as soon as the last shard of glass and bit of crusted food had been mopped up.

"No, please," Cassie had pleaded. "Please, don't take him away…"

"_Shut up, puta!"_ the head of the guard had shouted, storming over towards the girl. Shaking her violently, he hissed, "If you don't lay down quiet-like and go to sleep…"

Cassie's eyed had stared up at Oliver, who by then had been compelled towards the exit. They flickered back to the man who was squeezing her shoulders so hard that Oliver could see she was hurting. She nodded her head blankly, as though she was willing to say anything just so she wouldn't have to hurt anymore.

"Now, move," Oliver's guards had ordered, shoving him out the door and locking it firmly behind them. "You should know better than to try and interfere with the boss's girls…"

_Girls? _Oliver thought now as he tried to rest his head on the bumpy earth. _Please, God, don't tell me she's not the first…_

Once Oliver had been taken into 'the hold,' as he learned the barn's basement was called, he'd been shoved into the same cell he and Reid had occupied. "At least now we know you won't be escaping," one of the guards said evilly. From then it had been a fitful night. Oliver worried greatly that Darius had caught a second wind, and that he was now 'pleasuring' himself with the little girl that Oliver had tried so desperately to spare.

_She's just a little girl,_ he thought fiercely, as he picked himself up off the ground and began to once again search the solid walls for some sort of chink from which to begin an escape attempt. Unfortunately, the partitions were as steadfast as ever, and the door still remained locked and unopenable from his side. _We knew this guy was insane, but…_

Oliver also thought of Reid. Darius's statement about Raul wanting to 'teach' him again put shivers down his spine.

_Everything's falling apart,_ he realized sadly. _And there's nothing I can do about it from here. I don't know how much more Reid can take, and I can't save Cassie while I'm stuck in this hellhole._

The investigator tried ramming his sizable frame against the thick door, but got the same result as he did when Reid had been taken for his 'bath': sore shoulders and ribs and a door that wouldn't budge. Wincing in pain, Oliver sank to the ground, his bound hands falling flush with the grainy earth underneath him.

_There's nothing I can do,_ he reflected, unbidden thoughts of the horrors that awaited Reid and Cassie still flooding his exhausted mind. _There's nothing I can do to stop them…_ He flexed his fingers a little, trying to work out some of the stiffness in them, and his brain dwelled on something Darius had said earlier—_"You don't get it, do you? I _own_ you."_

_Impossible, _Oliver thought savagely. _No one can own another human being…_

Tired eyes looked at the surroundings the investigator currently inhabited. He reached his fingers upward, feeling the cold metal of the restraints that had been placed on his wrists the night before. Oliver looked down to see the oversized shirt he still wore, by some miracle. The garment was now caked with dust and dirt, and the exposed parts of his person still had to deal with being unwashed as they had been for several days. Oliver's stomach growled, the remnants of his last 'breakfast' now a distant memory, and his tongue was dry. _"You and this little _mujerzuela_ don't even breathe, I don't give my say so…" _he heard Darius tell him, the retort now an unbidden mantra running ceaselessly through his head.

Aching legs laid out in front of Oliver, and he began to study them with a new perspective. _Do they belong to me?_ he wondered. _Are they mine, a part of Oliver Lawrence, a human being; or are they some piece of stolen property that can be bought and sold to the highest bidder?_

_No. Impossible. How can someone buy a soul? That's what people are, after all—a combination of physical makeup and a soul. They can make me an unwilling servant, force me to do despicable things, but they can't take away my right to decide morals for myself. They can't break that._

His resolve renewed, Oliver stood up and walked over to the door. Outside, the rough patter of heavy footsteps echoed off the thick dirt and solid partitions of other cells. A key turned in the lock on Oliver's door, and two guards quickly grabbed him, one for each arm.

"Where are we going?" the investigator asked simply, keeping his voice soft.

"Boss has a chore for you," one of them snapped. "And you're gonna _behave_ while you do it."

-----

Reid woke up on the floor of the large bedroom. He shivered as the cool morning air enveloped him, causing goosebumps to rise all over his naked frame.

"I should kill you now, _puto,_ Raul had said the night before as he dragged the bound profiler into the small house. "Escaping?! Leaving bodies on the floor?!"

The younger man had swallowed thickly. "I-I…it was…" A sharp slap to the face silenced him.

"I don't care," Raul had snapped. "I try to be nice to you, and _this_ is how you repay me?!"

"Please…"

Raul had thrown the man onto the floor, next to the dark bloodstains that remained from earlier that day. The bodies were gone—after awhile, the 'victims' had apparently regained consciousness and were being treated for head wounds and concussions.

"It's that _amigo_ of yours," Raul decided as he tossed a bucket of soapy water and a towel at Reid's kneeling frame. "He made you do this."

Reid said nothing. He began to gingerly mop up the puddles of dark crimson that had begun to set onto the linoleum tile. Once the floor was 'clean,' Reid had been forced upstairs for more 'education' in the bedroom. He woke that morning feeling more violated than he had ever been before in his life.

"You'll sleep on the floor, _esclavo,_ Raul had said once he had 'finished' with Reid. "Maybe you'll learn a lesson about stealing things." The thin shift and soft pants had immediately been taken from him as he'd entered the house, and the shame of being naked in front of his captor flushed over Reid's entire body once more. The clanking sound of the despicable chain that anchored him to the floor make Reid's stomach crawl, and he ached all over from the 'performance' he'd had to give his 'owner' the night before.

_At least he hasn't…_ Reid thought, grateful that up until now Raul's 'pleasures' had been exploratory and voyeuristic. He didn't want to think about what might happen if the depraved man wanted to 'go further.' He coughed a little, desperate for a drink of water to wash out his mouth. The taste that lingered was overwhelming, and he felt more dirty and ashamed at the thought of what had put it there.

"Rise and shine, _querido,_" Raul sang, as though he were waking a child. "It's high time you took a bath."

_Oh, no, _Reid thought. _Not again…_


	33. Pain & Panic

**I'm still not sure about this one. Let me know what you think. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

The blinding sunlight struck Oliver's eyes, and he was led half-blindly up from the dimly lit barn cellar and towards the great mansion, stumbling over his own feet and scattered debris that lay haphazardly in his path. "Where are we going?" he asked again, hoping this time to get an answer.

"Never you mind," one of the guards snapped, an older man with a husky voice. "Just shut up and walk."

A part of Oliver wanted desperately to start a fight with his guards. He knew that it might be his only chance to escape again, but now there were more variables in play: the blinding sun, a small armed posse that completely surrounded him, and the threat of harm to both Reid and a thirteen year-old girl as well as himself. Consequently, Oliver fell silent and obediently tried to keep in step with the passel of men that wished nothing more than to see him hurt. The group walked briskly through the clay-tiled walkways and the large open foyer, and Oliver was surprised when he was led up the winding staircase and stopped in front of a certain thick teak door.

"On your knees," the lead guard ordered, and Oliver sank to the floor before he could be shoved towards it. Once the door had been opened, the guard barked, "Now, the bath. Crawl. And keep your eyes on the floor."

Oliver swallowed the thick stream of bile that wanted to pour out of his throat. He unwillingly obeyed, taking long 'strides' as he crawled on his hands and knees towards the bathroom. The sound of cloth rubbing against itself crinkled through Oliver's ears, and a soft grunt silenced it.

"Pay him no mind, _mija,_" Oliver heard Darius's voice say. "Now, eat."

"I-I'm not hungry…"

A deep, exasperated sigh escaped from a pair of lungs. "You're going to eat. Now, open up." The sound of metal clinking on ceramic rang through Oliver's ears, and before he could lift his head just slightly to get a better look he was hastily shoved into the bath. The door was slammed shut behind him. As Oliver glanced around the generous washroom, he saw streaks of blood across the white porcelain sink and a few smeared drops on the cold marble tile. The bathtub looked dusty, as though the room hadn't been used in some while, and there was a mess of towels and other products that lay in one corner of the room.

"Well?" Oliver's guard snapped. "Get to work."

"Wh-what exactly…"

"The girl needs a bath. You're going to set it up. And clean up this little mess here," the older man said simply.

Oliver's mind swam with the thought of Cassie being forced to bathe in front of her captors. "No," he said. Small stars bloomed behind Oliver's eyes as he winced from the blow to the back of his head.

"You'll do it, or else," the guard said simply. The sound of a gun being cocked made Oliver's spine stiffen in terror. Unwillingly, he took the bucket and cloth and began to mop up the bloodstains that lingered on the tile. _They didn't… _he wondered. _Did they? _The thought of Cassie bleeding from some cut or wound was bad enough, but…

The dust lay thickly over every surface, and Oliver 'dutifully' scrubbed down the sizable room. The water in the small metal bucket was thick and black, and had had to be changed several times before the place was considered 'satisfactory.'

"Hmmph," the guard snorted finally. "Watch him,"he said to the other armed guard in the room, a tall, slender man who looked to be about Reid's age.

"He'll kill her, you know," Oliver said as soon as the lead guard was out of earshot.

"You lie. Shut up."

"I'm serious. One day he'll decide she's 'used up' and he'll 'dispatch' her," Oliver argued, keeping his voice meek. "She's a little girl…"

"She's old enough to bleed," the guard said simply. "She's grown up."

"What if it were your sister?" Oliver tried, hoping against all hope to at least spare Cassie from what Darius had planned for her. "What if it were _her_ underneath some monster that saw her only as a sex object?"

"My sister is no _esclava_," the young man snapped. "Now, shut up."

"But…"

The butt of the gun came flying into Oliver's face, and he reeled from the blow. His head instantly began to pound, and the room began to get blurry. Oliver took slow, paced breaths, hoping to quell the nausea that was bubbling in his esophagus.

"Maybe that will teach you to learn your place," the young man snapped. Oliver laid himself down onto the cold tile, the cool marble a relief against his too-warm skin. The investigator reached his fingers up towards his temples, and he was troubled to find a sticky substance oozing from a sore spot along his brow.

"Clean that up, now," the guard ordered. "You're making a mess."

Oliver was so nauseous and dizzy he could barely lift his head up. He continued to take deep, steadying breaths as a way of controlling the pain that coursed through him.

"Clean it up, I said!" the guard yelled, kicking Oliver in the ribs.

"I-I can't…I can't…g-get up…"

"Marco!" the young man screamed. _"¡Hay un problema adentro aquí!"_

The investigator could make out the scattered footsteps of people running towards him, but he only saw blurred legs draw closer to his impaired line of sight. Oliver let out a slight groan, cursing himself for running his mouth and putting himself in this position.

"What the hell did you do?!" a familiar voice cried, and above him Oliver heard the muffled sound of something being beaten. "_Dolor en el asno _that he is, he's still worth more to me as an _esclavo_ than your sorry ass is as an employee!"

"Boss, I'm sorry…I…"

A loud _crack_ silenced the young guard. "He dies, so do you," Darius warned. "And I'll take his value out of your family's accounts." To the other people standing above Oliver, he said, "Get him into a room, and call our _amigo_ the _cirujano_. Restrain him, but someone keeps an eye on him at all times, _comprende?_"

"_Si,_" the voice of the older guard—Marco, apparently—affirmed. He then knelt down to Oliver's side and said, "Come on, get up."

Oliver's eyes were still fuzzy, and his head pounded so much he could barely hear the order. "I…I can't…" he whispered, hoping that someone could hear him. In his mind, images of people he loved and that loved him ran like a slide show on 'repeat.' _I can't die, _Oliver thought. _Not now…there's still too much to do…_

Then he felt hands grab hold of him and pick him up, his feet nowhere near the floor. _Please, don't let me die…_ he prayed, the irony of his situation lost on him. He heard something that sounded like crying near him, and he thought briefly of Cassie having to see him like this. Oliver's head hurt, and he desperately wanted to see a friendly face. "Reid…" he said, his voice trailing. "Please, let me see him…"

Something was said that Oliver couldn't make out. His vision began to blur more, and the last thing he knew before falling unconscious was that his body had hit a soft mattress.

----

"Mr. Cormier, time is of the essence," Gibbs said. He, Hotch and Chase were sequestered in a small room adjacent to the one the teams had 'borrowed' from Lucy, and their collective eyes were focused on the nervous young man in front of them. Cormier was biting his lips and staring at the table, as though if he didn't look at them he wouldn't be in this position.

"I-I don't know what you want me to say…"

"Your shoulder," Chase said suddenly. "How is it?"

"M-my shoulder?"

"Yeah. And your back. And your legs."

"They're fine."

"Esai, I know better. I was there."

"Then…then you can…"

"But I don't know everything," Chase said simply. "Someone out there, someone from Pena's operation, has restarted the business. If we don't find that person, a lot more people are going to be hurt, just like you were."

"We just need to know what happened _before_ the fire," Hotch explained gently. "Before that day…"

Cormier looked pale, and it was obvious that he was waging an internal war with himself. "Cubicles," he said suddenly, his face looking as though he'd spat out something sour.

"Cubicles?"

"Little 'rooms' with glass doors. No, not glass—plastic," he continued. "They put us in there, naked as the day we were born, for the 'buyers' to see…"

"How did you get caught up in that in the first place?" Gibbs wondered. He was keeping his tone calm, though his features were showing anything but.

"I went looking for a friend. Manuel. He was illegal, said he could find work through this company just out of the city. After a couple days, I hadn't seen him, and got worried." Cormier sighed sadly. "I started asking questions…"

"And then?" Chase asked.

"Then one night I was jumped. Next thing I know, I was in a van with a blindfold over my head. Then I was in that barn."

"What happened in the barn?" Hotch queried.

"They threw me down in the cellar. A man looked me over, then I was forced to wait in a locked room. After a while, I was taken for a 'bath' and stripped. Then it was back upstairs and into those 'cubicles' to wait."

"Jesus," Chase said. "Just like an auction."

"_Si,_ miss," Cormier affirmed. "Like an auction. I saw Manuel there—I had to pass his 'cubicle' as they forced me into mine. We both knew what would happen next."

"What about the people there?" Gibbs asked. "The ones running the operation?"

Cormier's face tightened in a look, as though he were searching for the right words. "They all saw us as property, _senor,_" he admitted. "No one had a name, just a word—_esclavo._"

"We've heard that," Hotch said. "But what about _them_?"

"Most of them were Cuban. A couple of Dominicans, maybe? The boss man, he was…_depravado."_ Cormier made a face. "Four days I was in that little space, and a few times I heard girls crying. I called out, to see what was wrong, and they said he'd 'dirtied' them."

The three lead agents nodded in understanding.

"There was one girl, though…Maria, she said her name was…I remember her…"

"Why Maria?" Hotch wondered. "What was special about her?"

"She said that one of the men had 'taken' her, and when she cried he merely laughed and said his _tio_ would like her too."

"_Tio?" _Chase asked?

"Uncle," Gibbs replied. "We're looking for a nephew."

"Did she ever say a name?" Chase asked. "Maybe a description?"

"No, miss," Cormier replied sadly. "But Manuel, he got into a fight with them, on the night before the fire…"

"What happened?" Hotch asked.

"The men, they wanted Manuel to 'dance' for them," the young man explained. "To…put on a show?"

"Depraved doesn't do them justice," Chase said simply.

"Manuel, he says he won't. They can beat him, and they can hurt him, but he won't do this. This one man, he say that Manuel will do whatever he says to, because he is Darius Luna and he owns him."

"Bingo," Chase said, immediately heading for the exit. Leaving the men alone, she raced towards the conference room and called out, "We've got a name—Darius Luna."

McGee quickly typed in the information, beckoning Kyle towards the screen. "On it, miss," he replied. "Background, priors, address, the works."

"Give the name to Garcia too, see if she can match it with anything," Chase added. The sight of Esai Cormier being escorted towards the exit by Hotch and Gibbs made her heart do a flip-flop. _He survived that nightmare and risked everything to start over, only to have us knocking on the door again,_ she thought. _God bless him._


	34. Doctor My Eyes

**More angst. Usual disclaimers. Let me know what you think.**

* * *

Oliver woke to a throbbing headache. It hurt to move his head much, and from behind his closed eyes he could hear voices talking in a rapid Spanish dialect he couldn't understand. The investigator picked up his hands and brought them to his eyes, trying to shield them from the bright sunlight that crept through a heavily draped window.

"_Bueno. El está para arriba," _a thick, heavily accented voice said finally. Before Oliver could gain his bearings, a bright light flashed into his eyes, causing him to wince in pain. "Painful?" the voice asked, and it took Oliver a minute to figure out what he had been asked.

"Y-yes," he stammered, desperate to keep the intrusive light from his sight. "Please, it hurts…"

The light disappeared, and soon a rough, calloused finger began running itself along Oliver's brow. "Mmm," the voice said. Shortly after that, Oliver winced as a stinging liquid was applied to the sore spot his own fingers had discovered earlier. "This happened how?"

"One of my 'former employees' got a little rough," he heard Darius say matter-of-factly. "Fixable, yes?"

"_Si. _Now, if you please, let me finish," the heavy voice said, firmly but not sharply. Oliver could barely make out the sound of retreating footsteps and a door gently closing shut.

"Please, h-help me," Oliver said weakly. He tried to open his eyes, but even in the dim room the light was still too bright to bear. "I'm being h-held against my will…"

"Shh," the accented man said as he started pressing along Oliver's rib cage. The investigator winced a little as the intrusive fingers pressed against the area where he'd been kicked. "Fresh?" the man asked.

"Y-yes," Oliver replied. "It's nothing…look, th-there's a little girl h-here too…"

"Shh," the man said again, and continued to 'examine' the sick and injured man as though there were nothing out of the ordinary. "You need rest."

"No, p-please—I need to get out of h-here," Oliver insisted, his voice still faint and thready. "My friend is here too, being h-held prisoner…please, help me save th-them…"

"You've had a nasty blow to the head; and from it a severe concussion. You need rest. How is your stomach?"

"Upset, b-but…"

"Broth then, or light soup. Need to keep that strength up, eh?"

Oliver shook his head, wincing in agonizing pain as he did so. "Y-you don't un-understand…"

"I do, young man. You need to rest. I'll speak with Darius about your condition, and you should be fine within a few days."

"N-no, please…" Oliver trailed, trying desperately to reach out towards the man. Weak, clumsy fingers caught the man's shirt sleeve, and he pulled on the cloth as though his life depended on it. "Please, listen to me…my n-name is Oliver…"

"Shh, shh," the man said gently, removing Oliver's grasping fingers from his shirt and placing the arm gently on the bed. "We'll get someone in to watch you—falling asleep isn't something you should be doing for very long, not with a concussion."

"N-no…" Oliver begged, watching as the man took his leave. His mind was muddled beyond belief, and he fought the overwhelming urge to sleep. _I have to get out of here,_ he thought as the room in front of him began to swim. He tried to pick himself up, but his limbs had become rubber. Desperate, Oliver tried to shift himself towards the edge of the large bed, hoping that he might be able to fall onto the floor and work from there.

----

"_Senor, _he's got a bad concussion," the surgeon said simply. "He needs someone to look in on him every two hours—if he falls asleep for very long, he might not wake up. Also, he needs to eat."

"What?"

"Thin broth, maybe a light soup. Nothing heavy. Keep the lights to a minimum, and no sudden movements or beatings. Failure to follow these instructions may result in a loss to your investment."

Darius sighed. _"Bueno._ It will be done. That one's too important to let some _asno ignorante_ break him. _Gracias, _doctor."

"_No un problema._ Good luck." Darius handed the man a few large bills, and the surgeon quickly took his leave.

"Marco!" the entrepreneur called out.

"_Si?_"

"Go to Raul's and tell him I'm taking his _esclavo_ for a few days. He'll be busy enough, what with those shipments coming in later this week…"

"If he argues?"

"Then tell him I'll take the little _puto_ back. He's still in hock to me for him, so technically I own his ass. But I think he'll see reason."

"_Bueno." _The man turned and headed back down the stairs. Moments afterward, there was a deafening _crash_ that echoed in from the room behind him. Darius immediately opened the door to find his slave sprawled out on the parquet floor, in obvious pain, trying desperately to crawl away from the four-poster he had been previously lying upon. The shackle and chain around the younger man's ankle was making his escape attempt difficult at best.

"Not two minutes and already you're causing me trouble," Darius snapped. He stood over Oliver's frame, glaring at the back of the man's head. "And just _where_ were you going, _esclavo_?"

Oliver took in deep breaths. "Let me go," he begged. "Please, just…"

"After I spent ten grand on fixing your ass? You are _loco._ Now, lay there nice and still before I forget I'm not supposed to hit you…"

----

"What the hell do you want?!" Raul screamed as the knocks on his door continued to pound. Reid cringed, trying desperately to hide underneath the soap bubbles and stay as far from the disgusting man holding him as he could. "I'm busy!"

"Raul, open up. _Es importante._"

The man glared furiously at Reid, who was inching lower into the tub. "Don't you move," he snapped, reaching for Reid's 'leash' and snapping it to the towel bar set firmly within the tile and concrete of the wall behind him. "I'll take care of this…"

As the door slammed shut, Reid allowed himself to take a breath. Raul's fingers had been all over him, as though he were trying to find some 'magical' entrance to Reid's inner workings. The profiler's skin had crawled and squirmed as he fought being 'bathed' like a dog or a cat. Reid attempted to stand up, but the 'leash' was set so short that standing at his full height was nearly impossible. Discouraged, the young man sat in the rapidly cooling water, a slight chill starting to envelop him. _Maybe I'll catch cold,_ he thought. _With no medical attention, I could easily catch my death from it…_

_No, _he chided himself. _You've got other things to worry about. Dying doesn't help Oliver, or Cassie, or solve any problems you still have in the 'real world.'_

_But it would get me out of this nightmare…_

_Focus. Killing yourself only creates more problems, not fixes them. There has to be a better way._

Suddenly Raul's voice carried through the door. _"What?!" _Soft murmurs followed, and then the agitated man squealed again: "Is that so?!"

Reid swallowed thickly. "Fine," Raul said crisply. "But he'd better watch his 'staff' around him."

Several pairs of footsteps entered the kitchen—Reid could make out rubber soles connecting with the linoleum tile. "Wait here," he snapped, still worked up from the news he'd received. "I'll get him ready. Can't have him catching cold…"

The profiler shuddered as he realized the irony of Raul's comment. Moments later, the older man stormed into the bath and released Reid's 'leash.' "Get up," he snapped. "My _primo,_ he has a little chore for you."

"Ch-chore?" Reid squeaked. Thoughts of the last 'chore' that he'd been forced to perform for the man weighed heavily on his mind.

"Yes. Now get up. You're going to do as he says, and _behave._ Or else…"

Reid didn't want him to finish the statement. The image of a dead girl on a four-poster or Oliver strung up by his neck haunted him, and he silently allowed himself to be dried off, bound, led out to the bedroom and walked down the stairs like a 'pet' on a short leash. The warm sun beat down upon his naked flesh, and the sight of several 'employees' milling around the grounds made Reid wish he had something to cover himself with.

"Ah, Raul, _muy bueno,_" Darius said, warmly greeting his cousin as though he hadn't seen him in years. Taking the 'leash' and handcuff keys from the younger man, Reid meekly followed behind the older ringleader that held his friend and a young girl under lock and key.

"Your _amigo_ had a little 'accident'," Darius said simply, not bothering to gauge Reid's reaction to the tidbit of information. "Now he needs looking after, and you're going to make sure he gets better."

"Wh-what kind of…"

A light slap to Reid's head silenced him. "Not important. But it will be rectified, no?" The pair then walked on in silence, the profiler staying always a step behind the man who held him like a trained animal. Reid marveled as he turned up the staircase towards the row of teak doors, wondering why he was being brought here. In the distance he saw two heavily armed guards standing sentry on either side of one of the doors.

"In here. You'll feed him, wash him, and make sure he gets woken up every two hours," Darius insisted. "And before you start thinking of escape…" The man pushed open the door and pulled Reid inside, showing the profiler a dim, barely lit room that was a wide as the one Cassie was being held inside. Another giant four-poster stood waiting, and Reid instantly recognized the still figure lying next to the piece of furniture on the floor. A chain held him fast to the solid object.

"Oliver!" Reid cried, attempting to sprint towards his fallen friend. "What did you do to him?" the profiler demanded as he knelt over Oliver's still frame, his eyes shining with anger.

"You, _esclavo,_ are in no position to give orders," Darius reminded him, kicking the kneeling man slightly. "Now, help me pick him up and put him back on the bed."

Reid immediately took hold of Oliver's arms. "My hands," he said, raising his bound wrists slightly. "I can't…"

Darius leaned over and released Reid's wrists. "Now, on three…" Within moments, the unlikely pair lifted Oliver off of the parquet floor and back onto the bed. Once Oliver was settled, Darius motioned towards something in the distance. Reid held his breath as an armed guard stepped out of the dark shadows, holding out a long length of chain fitted with two shackles—a small one and a slightly larger one. The cold metal encircled Reid's right ankle, and the smaller restraint clicked into place around the thick leg of the giant bed.

"You need to move him to the bath, you tell them," Darius said, motioning towards the dark corners of the room. "I warn you, don't try anything, or I'll dispatch you both—loss of investment or not."

Reid nodded slightly, afraid to show any resistance. Once the confident man left, Reid leaned in closer to his friend. "What happened, Oliver?" he asked.

"Mmm…too loud," the investigator mumbled. "Reid, that y-you?"

"Yeah. It's me. Oliver, what happened to you?"

"Somebody hit me, h-hard. Saw st-stars." Oliver groaned again. "Told me I had t-to 'clean' a bathroom…Cassie's…g-get it 'ready' for her…"

The thought of that little girl forced to bathe in front of Darius or his men made Reid stand up and turn toward the door. The rattle of chain sounded through the room, and one of the figures took a step from his dark corner. "Where do you think you're going?" a harsh voice demanded, and the cocking of guns sounded through the room.

Reid froze. "N-nowhere," he said meekly.

"Get back over there, then." Some Spanish words floated across the room, and one of the guards brought over a rickety chair for Reid to sit on. The profiler gingerly took the seat, wincing as the wicker weaving poked at his bare flesh.

"They let you keep the shirt," Reid said gently, trying to lighten the mood a little.

"Y-you can h-have it," Oliver said, wriggling a little. "It's too...too hot."

"No. You stay covered. Can't have you getting sick."

Oliver chuckled a little. "Too late."

Reid sat next to his friend as he drifted off into a fitful sleep. _Two hours,_ he remembered, and his eyes desperately searched for a clock of some kind. "Is…is there a clock in here?" Reid asked.

"Look behind you," another harsh voice said. The agent did as he was told, and saw an old-fashioned grandfather clock keeping time on the wall behind him. The numbers were a little hard to make out in the dark, but he could hear the _ticking_ of the instrument now as clear as day.

As Oliver slept, Reid's mind began to wander a bit. _Who did this to him? Was it Darius? Or some overzealous employee? What did he do to deserve this? Stupid question—what did _any_ of us do to deserve this horrible treatment?_

What puzzled Reid the most, though, was the care Darius had shown Oliver since the 'accident,' whatever it was. _Obviously he likes the American idea of slavery rather than the Nazi version,_ he thought. _He's willing to expend resources and money to 'fix' him rather than just 'dispatch' him outright as though Oliver were nothing. _Reid began to follow his mind down other avenues that began to scare him, and every so often he could hear the sound of one of the many guards in the room shifting in their spaces—a subtle reminder that the pair weren't alone in the dark.

Suddenly Reid heard a loud report—one that came from a rifle of some sort. "Wh-what was th-that?" Oliver mumbled, his eyes half-open and his face pale.

"I don't know," Reid said, and he cautiously walked towards the nearby window and gently lifted the drape. The sight of a young man's lifeless body being dragged off into the woods, the remains of his head a mass of red blood and missing tissue, told Reid that Darius had 'dispatched' the man responsible for putting Oliver in this position.

"Serves him right, _esclavo,_" one of the guards said simply, as though he were reading Reid's mind. "The boss doesn't like having his investment property rendered useless."

Shivering a little at the statement, Reid carefully returned to his seat. "Come on, Oliver," he said softly, pressing a hand against Oliver's own. "You can't leave me here like this…not by myself..."

"You...you did it b-before," Oliver said quietly. "Georgia, remember?"

"Different scenario," Reid insisted, his tone soft. "Now there's more to it than that."

"I know," Oliver murmured. "We'll...we'll find a way…we will, tr-trust me." With that, the weakened investigator fell back to sleep, and once again Reid had to endure the silence and the unseen eyes he knew watched the pair's every move.


	35. Bruised But Not Broken

**The long chapter. Hope you enjoy. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Reid's neck was stiff, and he longed to lay out onto the plush, inviting bed—even if it meant sleeping next to Oliver's feverish, hurt and battered frame. _Been sleeping next to a man for this long,_ he thought darkly, recalling all the times Raul had compelled him to lie next to him in the wooden four-poster he owned. _Does it really matter now?_

However, Oliver was lying on the left side of the bed, and Reid was loathe to move him. The little sleep his friend was getting was fitful, and it didn't help that Oliver had to be woken up every time he finally settled down and actually fell asleep. Reid would have settled for the space next to Oliver, but his restraint would be taxed to its limit if he tried to occupy it.

"Oliver," Reid said gently, listening to the sound of the grandfather clock chime out the hour. It was now five o'clock in the evening. "Oliver, wake up. Come on."

"Leemee sleep," the older investigator murmured, batting Reid's delicate hands away from him. "Tired."

"Oliver, wake up," Reid said sternly. "You have a concussion. I need to check you."

"S' fine. Head hurts."

Reid sighed. He'd begged his guards for some aspirin, but all he'd received was a small dish with a white cloth and a few ice cubes in it. The profiler had wrapped a few of the ice cubes up in the thin cloth and pressed it against Oliver's brow, making sure to mind the large ragged tear in the middle of his forehead that was still oozing trickles of blood on occasion. "Cold," Oliver had said when Reid had first applied the compress. "Feels good." The ice cubes had long since melted, but Reid still kept applying the remnants of the cold moisture that the rag still held inside of it.

"Water," Oliver said suddenly. "Please."

Long fingers reached for the plastic tumbler that had been brought in with 'lunch'. There were only a few swallows left in the glass, and Reid knew he'd have to refill it soon. "Drink slow," he warned, pressing the green plastic onto Oliver lips. "And sit up. You'll choke otherwise."

Oliver lifted his head just enough to intake the water, and as soon as he finished he laid back down. The glass was now completely dry.

"How long has he been like this?" Reid asked meekly.

"As long as you've been here," one of the older guards replied.

"And b-before that?"

"Not long. An hour maybe."

"C-can I take him into the bath?" Reid asked, using their term for the washroom.

"What for?"

"It's been hours, and I'm sure your boss w-wouldn't like the bed a mess," Reid said, still stammering a little. More than anyone he'd ever encountered—crazed unsub or just vicious human being—he truly believed these six individuals standing guard over him would have no qualms about simply shooting him and Oliver dead and then going off for coffee or a beer immediately afterward. Reid resolved to 'behave' as much as possible to avoid finding out if that assessment were true.

Short snatches of rapid Spanish conversation floated above and through Reid's ears, and a minute or two later the 'lead' guard unlocked both Reid and his patient from the bed. "Go," the man said, his gruff voice sending shivers down Reid's bare spine. "There's only one way in, and only one way out."

The profiler nodded meekly. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice barely a whisper. Turning towards Oliver, he managed to rouse him again and sit him up. "Come on. Time for a break."

"N-no, Reid," Oliver said. "I'm tired…"

"You've been laying there for hours. I'm not letting you make a mess. Come on. We'll get you settled and get you a bath—that dirt all over you can't be good for this either."

"Bath?" Oliver said, his interest perking up a little. "Okay…" Soon the pair were slowly making their way to the private bathroom, Oliver stumbling a little as his feet refused to work just right. About ten minutes later, Oliver was sitting in the giant white marble bathtub while Reid ran the faucet and poured in a capful of bath suds. _Darius must like his bubble baths, _he reasoned. _There's a bottle of bubble bath in every room, it seems like._

Once the water was at Oliver's shoulders, Reid switched the faucet off. He handed Oliver a small white cloth that had been hanging from a small towel bar set into the wall behind him, and then turned around.

"You're not…"

Reid shuddered a little at Oliver's partial request. "If you can do it yourself, so much the better," he said calmly. The sounds of light splashing rang through Reid's ears, and he relaxed a little as he heard Oliver fumbling around for the thin bar of soap that had been set out on the tub for him to use. He couldn't bear the thought of having to 'wash' Oliver himself, no matter how close of friends the two were—which after three years was decidedly close indeed.

"Thanks," Oliver said after a few minutes. "You can turn around now, if you want…" The sight that greeted Reid's eyes was the sight of Oliver, freshly washed but still wincing from the bright light that illuminated the space, settled into the warm water and covered by the mountain of bath suds that lingered in the cooling tub. Reid sat cross-legged next to the white marble tub, the feeling of cool tile a welcome relief to his sore and scratched backside.

"Hey," Oliver said, trying his best to put on a smile. "How does it feel to be a real person again?"

"Real person? Surely you jest," Reid snorted slightly. The profiler turned his head and saw Oliver's bloodstained shirt lying in a heap next to the bathroom door. "Here," he said. "I'll try and clean this out too—no good cleaning up if you're putting on old dirty clothes." Oliver chuckled a little at the attempt at humor, and Reid picked his bare frame up from the floor and reached across the small room to grab the article in question. Just as his long fingers touched the soiled fabric, however, a hand picked up the battered garment and clutched it tightly. "Looking for this?" an all-too familiar voice said, its tone almost cooing.

Reid slowly turned his gaze upward and swallowed thickly. "R-Raul," he stammered. "Wh-what are…?"

"_Primo's_ got me running _esclavo_ errands," the slightly older man spat, his face contorted in bitterness at his cousin. "Things that _puto_ over there should be doing, instead of occupying my _querido's_ precious time…"

Oliver twitched a little in the water, and the splash resounded in Reid's ears. "Oho," Raul chortled. "Isn't _this_ cozy…"

"Please," Reid whimpered, the overwhelming feeling of dread creeping back rapidly over him. "Please, leave me alone…"

"Leave you alone? No, _querido_, you must be going _loco_ up here. We have 'unfinished business' to tend to…" Raul moved closer to Reid's hunched form as he spoke, and soon the unwanted feeling of light, soft fingers caressing Reid's bare spine collapsed onto the profiler in spades. "There's time for something small, wouldn't you say? Hmm?"

"Reid?" Oliver called out from the bath, his voice a little groggy. The action of coming to the bathroom and then the bath had been more than he could stand in his current condition. "I don't…I think I'm…"

The agent tried to stand up and run over to his friend before the inevitable happened, but Raul's hands forcing him to the cold tile floor hampered his attempt. Soon the sounds of bile escaping from Oliver's throat poured through Reid's eardrums, and a fresh wave of humiliation and anger boiled within his chest. "Get off of me!" he screamed, fighting Raul with every ounce of strength he possessed. "Filthy _bastard!_"

"That's it, _querido,_ get angry," Raul clucked patronizingly. "Makes for better fun once the feeling changes to something more…amorous."

Reid lashed out with everything he had—his arms, his legs, his feet, his hands. Raul seemed able to deflect every blow Reid tried to connect, and soon the older man was straddling the thin, waif-like agent, pinning him to the tile floor.

"Help!" Oliver shouted hoarsely, hoping that someone could hear him. He was too disoriented and weak to pick himself up out of the bathtub, but he mustered enough strength to levy a series of _splashes_ onto Raul's commanding frame. The unexpected 'bath' made the caramel-colored man splutter and grow even more incensed.

"You want to _play,_ _puto?_ _Bueno. _We'll play," Raul said menacingly, abandoning Reid's cowering form and moving towards the bathtub.

"Please, help us! He's killing him!" Reid screamed.

Suddenly the door burst open and three of the guards hurried in, their guns and rifles aimed and ready. "What the _hell_ is going on in here?!" the lead guard shouted, and the room fell instantly silent after that. Reid noticed that the guards' gaze was directed towards Raul, and the older bully started to sputter something incoherent.

"He…he was trying to kill him," Reid said, his voice shaking as he pointed between Raul and Oliver. "A-after what 'the boss' said and all…"

"_Usted miente, esclavo asqueroso. Esto es un malentendido, nada más…"_

"He a-attacked Reid, while he was working," Oliver said simply, his voice weak. "He was angry...b-because he h-had to do '_esclavo _chores'…"

"You're going to take the word of two _slaves_ over mine?!" Raul asked incredulously, his face a portrait of disbelief and shock.

"Here's what I know, _perturbador_: the last _idiota de la intromission _who tried 'breaking' the boss's 'merchandise' was executed this morning. _Primo_ or no _primo_, I know if you break them further you'll be next." The lead guard then said something Reid couldn't make out, and the two other guards physically hoisted Raul up by the shirt collar and grabbed hold of his shoulders. "Now, we're going to pretend this never happened, and if you _stay away_ and _follow orders_, we won't have any more problems, eh?"

"Stay away? That one belongs to me!" Raul said stubbornly, pointing a shaking finger straight at Reid's huddled frame. "I bought him, fair and outright!"

"Not what the boss says," the lead guard said simply. "Take it up with him. Now, _move."_ The sounds of retreating footsteps and Raul's screaming protests were music to Reid and Oliver's ears.

"You okay, Reid?" Oliver asked as the door was firmly closed behind the remaining guard.

"Yeah, I…" Reid tried to keep his voice even but it shattered like delicate hand-blown glass. "No. No, I'm not…" Oliver reached out a wet, clammy hand to try and touch Reid's shoulder as the younger man poured his heart out onto the tile floor, huge sobs wracking the profiler's thin, nude frame. "I'm not all right…"

"What is it, Reid? What has he done to you?"

Reid shook his head deftly from side to side. "No, Oliver. It's…"

"You profilers are the most stubborn creatures. And I thought getting Josh to talk was a trial."

"We're not stubborn."

"Oh? Like you weren't a clam after that fiasco in Colorado?" Oliver said gently. "Or how about that time in Texas…"

"Come on, let's get you back up and into bed," Reid said simply, wiping the remnants of shed tears onto his hand. "You need to rest."

"And you…you need to talk. Something tells me those men out there, they're not going to care what we talk about," Oliver countered, allowing himself to be gently picked up from the bath. "Better set me down a minute while you clean that," he said, stealing a glance towards the now-vomit-filled tub that lay just underneath him.

"Have to clean you back up first," Reid said simply, and quickly took a clean towel and ran it under some hot water. Once damp, Reid took the towel and applied a little soap to it, then washed Oliver down like an antique lamp or a piece of furniture.

"There," he said finally. "It'll have to do."

"Better th-than I was," Oliver remarked. "Thanks."

Reid sighed and then began to let the soiled water out of the tub.

"Reid, talk to me," Oliver said softly. "What's he done to you?"

The profiler scrubbed the marble tub down with almost a ferocity Oliver's only seen in the younger man when he was truly upset. "What _hasn't_ he done, Oliver?" he finally admitted, throwing down the bile-filled cloth the agent had been scrubbing with. "My skin crawls every time he's within a hundred yards of me. His fingers are constantly 'exploring' every inch of me. He keeps me completely naked, even in public…" Reid's voice began to crack again. "I-I had to 'perform' for him, more than once—some things you couldn't imagine, Oliver…"

"Try me?" the investigator said gently, almost coaxing the hurt and shame out of his friend.

"My hands…my lips…God, Oliver, I can still _taste_ that 'release' of his in my mouth and down my throat!" Reid said, his voice high and nearly frantic. "I-I've had to 'clean' him with my tongue, lick his feet, and…and then allow him to do the same to me!" Tears fell like raindrops from the young man's face, and he tried desperately to hide his overwhelming shame from his friend. "H-he tried to get me drunk, on wine—how anyone can drink that vile concoction…"

"Shh, shh," Oliver said, his voice lolling a little. Oliver's head hurt terribly, but he knew he couldn't stop Reid from releasing the emotions and fears he'd bottled up now for so long. "We'll get out of this."

"Will we, Oliver?" Reid asked, his question nearly a challenge. "Part of me thinks that this is it—_this_ is all we'll ever be."

"Hey, your team would never just let you 'disappear,' Spencer," Oliver said sharply, his voice still shaky. "No more than Chase and Kyle would let me."

"I know the odds, Oliver," Reid said, his voice masked by the cavernous bathtub he was scrubbing again. "By now we'd have had to be found in order to be rescued…"

"But, you're forgetting," Oliver said, keeping his voice low. "Usually 'merchandise' would have been sold off two or three times by now. We haven't been."

Reid looked up from the marble tub. "That's true. We also haven't been moved from the point of sale—at least, not far."

"And we're together. One hell of an advantage."

"Been working for us so far," Reid countered bitterly. "They just use that to 'keep us in line'…"

Oliver fell silent. He recalled his 'conversation' with the doctor that had been brought in to 'treat' him, and his heart sank a little. "We can't count on finding help here, either." He told the profiler about the doctor he'd spoken to, and Reid's eyes widened in horror as Oliver finished.

"My God," he said quietly. "He just left?"

"Yeah," Oliver admitted. "I mean, I've taken beating after beating since I got here, but now that I'm about to die I get a doctor—one who's willing to turn a 'blind eye' to what's going on here."

Reid looked at Oliver sternly. "How bad, Oliver?"

"This time or before?"

"Before."

"Oh, not too bad. Sick bastard strung me up by the neck so that I had to balance on my tiptoes overnight the first night after the 'sale.' Then I've had to scrub floors completely naked, the 'performance' with you--"

Reid shuddered. "Don't remind me. Please."

"Hey, it happened. Then I got a night outside chained outside a chicken coop, then more floors, then the last escape attempt, and…well, you know the rest."

"Uh-unh," Reid said, swishing water around in the bathtub to clear it. "How'd you end up with a concussion?"

"I t-told you," Oliver said, sleep threatening to take hold of the investigator once again. "I had to c-clean Cassie's…"

"Yeah, but you'd been cleaning floors. What happened, really?"

Oliver swallowed thickly. "I tried to c-convince one of the guards to help us," he said slowly. "It…didn't work. I just p-pissed him off, and he hit me with his gun. Hard, too."

"No kidding." Reid sighed again, then rinsed his hands and stood up. "Well, let's get you back to bed. You've gotta rest."

"Can't do that with you p-poking me every two hours."

"Hey, I want you breathing. And for the right reasons." Reid gingerly picked Oliver up off the floor, and together the pair slowly made their way towards the giant four-poster, Oliver leaning more and more heavily on Reid as the short trek continued. Finally, the pair reached the bed, and Reid tucked Oliver inside of it as the guards replaced their shackles.

"Please," Reid said, picking up Oliver's chain and shaking it a little. "He-he can't run…"

The guard merely shook his head. "Orders." The profiler hung his head in submission as he unwillingly accepted the answer.

Just then there were loud crashes and screams, and the sound of objects breaking just down the hall shook Reid out of his sleep-like trance. The door flew open and Darius entered, his eyes shining in anger and rage. "Come with me, _puto,_" he snapped as he quickly released Reid's ankle and attached his 'leash' to his 'collar.' "You're going to be earning your keep tonight."


	36. Somebody's Watching Me

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Please, I-I don't understand…" Reid stammered, trying desperately to keep up with his captor's frenetic pace. "O-Oliver…"

"Will be fine for a couple of hours, _puto,_" Darius snapped. "Now, listen, and listen good. You're going in there, and you're going to see to my _mija_."

Confused, Reid asked, "S-see to her?"

"Just like you're doing with that _puto amigo_ of yours. She won't eat, she won't clean up, she won't 'play nice.' You're going to 'convince' her to do those things."

The thought of having to tell the little girl she had to submit to Darius's advances made Reid's stomach churn. "Wh-what if she doesn't?"

"Then I dispatch her and find another. There are plenty of _putas_ from families that destroyed mine to pick from, _esclavo."_

_So that's it, _Reid realized. _He's taking his revenge by stealing loved ones from those he blames for that particular incident, whatever it might be, and using them as forced prostitutes and slave labor. _

"Now, get in there. Don't get cute—your _amigo_ is just down the hall, and easy enough to dispatch if you try."

Reid merely nodded his head, and the thick teak door was opened enough to admit him. A pair of guards stood sentry in the corners of the room, and atop the four-poster laid the frightened little girl, the remnants of tear tracks glistening as they dried on her face.

"No," she mumbled. "Please, just let me go…"

"Cassie, it's Spencer," Reid said gently, desperately wishing he had some kind of clothing to cover his naked frame with. Cassie stared at the tall, nude man that crept closer to her and tried to pull herself away from his advancing figure.

"Get away from me!" she screamed. "Someone help me, please! I want my mama…!"

"Shh, shh, it's me, remember?" Reid coaxed, kneeling to the floor in an attempt to cover himself and put him at eye level with her. "I'm not going to hurt you…"

"Wh-where's your clothes?"

The profiler sighed. "They took them away from me," he admitted, his face growing flush as he did so. Reid knew the best way to develop some semblance of trust was to be open and honest with a subject as possible, and he desperately needed Cassie to trust him right then. "I-I took them from the man who took me, and he made me give them back."

"But then…where's _your_ clothes?"

"They were destroyed."

"Oh." Cassie looked down onto the thick comforter, trying her best to avert her eyes to the scene that lay just below the edge of the bed. "Where's Oliver?"

"He's…sleeping," Reid said. Trust building or no, he couldn't have her focused on Oliver's predicament just then. When Cassie gave him a _look_, he added, "I just saw him get into bed."

"They…they hurt him. Bad."

"I know."

"He was bleeding, and he couldn't walk, and then a while later there was a loud noise, like a gunshot…" The little girl curled up into a protective ball, her sobs growing more forceful with each passing minute.

"Hey, Oliver's all right. I promise."

"Then who…? I know it was a gunshot, Spencer. My papa, he took me shooting once—the loud noise scared me…"

"Tell me a little about your papa," Reid said, realizing that talking about something safe and familiar might get Cassie to calm down.

"He's…he's a lieutenant in the Navy," the girl said softly, mindful of the guards in the corners. "His name is Tomas, and…and my mama, her name is Celia…"

"What does your mama do?" Reid queried, noticing that Cassie was uncurling a little from her tight ball.

"She keeps house, teaches sometimes," Cassie said. "I want to go home," she cried. "I want my mama…"

Reid gingerly pulled Cassie into a hug, the feeling of her warm skin and the rough cloth of her bedshirt rubbing against his own unprotected flesh. "Hey, shh. We're working on that."

"Really?"

"Mmm hmm." Reid looked over towards the small night table to see a tray of food sitting on top of it, the contents barely touched. "Not hungry?" he asked.

"A-a little," the girl said. "But I'm afraid…"

"Why?"

Cassie took deep breaths, her eyes flittering towards the unseen guards that lurked in the shadows. "What if they put something in it? You know, to make me sick? Or sleepy? That man, the mean one, he keeps trying to touch me, and maybe he might try while I'm asleep?"

Reid picked up a section of sandwich from the tray. "Here," he said, taking a bite and swallowing the bit of bread and cheese and turkey that melted onto his tongue. "Now we'll find out, hmm?"

"But…"

"If I get sick or start to fall asleep, then you'll know. I wouldn't eat it either. Give it about an hour, and we'll know, okay?"

"Okay," Cassie said reluctantly.

Reid readjusted his legs so that he was sitting cross-legged on the parquet floor. He hated the fact that he was being forced to expose himself to this young girl, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to remedy that.

"Here," Cassie said, pulling a small throw blanket from the corner of the bed. "Maybe this will work?"

The profiler picked up the thin blanket and wrapped it around his waist like a sarong he'd seen beach-goers in Miami wear once, while on a case. "Thank you, Cassie."

"You're welcome, Spencer." Reid smiled at the exchange. _Feels nice to have someone call me by my name—either of them, _he thought._ I'm still a person, after all._

Her faith buoyed a little by the sight of a kind and friendly face, Cassie smiled back. For the second time since she'd been brought to this miserable place, the girl didn't feel like an unwanted prisoner or some cheap 'plaything' being kept in a gilded cage. "What now?" she whispered.

Reid thought about Darius's 'list' of demands. "Cassie," he said, his voice growing serious. "Has anyone hurt you? Since you've been here?"

"N-no," Cassie said. "Not like _that,_ I mean."

"Like what?"

"Like that mean man wants to. He won't let anyone come near me, just him, except that one time just before you and Oliver came in."

"The short man, looked kind of caramel-colored?"

"Yes. He was mean too."

"How has the mean man hurt you?"

"He hits me, yells a lot. He touches me, like he did when you and Oliver were here, but not as much as then. Tells me I'm never going home, that I'm going to do what he wants from now on…"

The sound of that troubled Reid. _It's only a matter of time before he forces her to 'comply,'_ he thought, _and he'll try it when there's no one to stop him…_

"I kick him and try to make him stop," Cassie continued in her hushed tones. "This doesn't help," she said gloomily, indicating the chain that connected her right ankle to the bedpost.

"Cassie, I'm afraid he might try to hurt you more if you don't listen to him," Reid said.

"You want me to let him…?! No. No, I _can't_. I'm scared. I want to go home to my papa…"

"No, no, nothing like that." _God, I wish I didn't have to do this. _"The truth is, the mean man? He plans to hurt Oliver if you don't 'behave'." Reid put a lot of emphasis on the word 'behave.'

"He…he would do that?"

"Yes. I think he would. He's told me I have to 'behave' too, or else he'll hurt Oliver, and Oliver's been told we'll be hurt if he doesn't do what he's told." The look on Reid's face told the little girl that he was dead serious.

"But…but, you're a boy. What could he…?"

Reid gently took Cassie's hand into his own and squeezed it. "He wants us to work for him. He wants us to do all the chores he doesn't want to, the ones that are hard and humiliating…"

"Like cleaning the bathroom?" Cassie wondered. "That's what Oliver was doing, I think, before he got hurt." The girl pointed to a familiar looking teak door that sat off to the side of the room—it was a mirror image of the one in Oliver's 'sick room.'

"Yes, like that." Reid chose not to go into much further detail about the 'expectations' his 'owners' had for him.

"But why take your clothes?"

Reid swallowed hard. "So…so we wouldn't run away," he said. _There's probably a grain of truth to that,_ he reasoned. "He thought we'd be ashamed, the mean man, if we tried to run away with no clothes on."

"Oh." Cassie looked at Reid. "I wouldn't be."

The profiler smiled. "You're a lot braver than I am, then."

Cassie returned the smile, though it was small. "Spencer?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"I, um…" Bright brown eyes that shone like dark pebbles flickered towards the bathroom door.

"Oh." Turning towards the guard in the near corner, he asked, "Can she…um, go to the bath?" he asked, continuing to use the 'local' term.

The guard stepped out of the shadows, a large, nasty looking rifle in one hand and a smaller automatic wedged firmly onto a loop in his belt. Slowly, he pulled a small thin key from his pocket, and he unfastened Cassie's restraint, allowing her off the bed. "There, and back," the man growled in warning. "No tricks."

"Yes, sir," Reid said meekly, and with that Cassie ran for the small washroom, firmly closing the door behind her.

"Get over there and make sure she's doing what she's supposed to," the guard snapped, pushing Reid with the barrel of the rifle. "She dies, and it's on you."

"How could she…?" Reid began to wonder aloud, then instantly silenced himself. _Remember, genius—behave._ Prodded on by the muzzle of the rifle, Reid knocked loudly on the teak door. "Cassie? Are you okay in there?"

"Yes…I'm just…_busy_…at the moment…" Reid put his ear to the door and was relieved to hear no sounds of footsteps or objects clinking around on the porcelain or tile. By all accounts, Cassie was attending to herself as she said she needed to.

"She's not trying to escape, I swear," Reid said, his voice calm and even. "At least let me give her some privacy…"

"Hmmph," the guard snorted. "Fine. Soon as she's done, the boss wants her 'cleaned up'."

Reid shuddered at the thought of having to 'wash' the little girl, being forced to violate her further than she already had been. "She…she could…" he began, but a rough _click_ silenced him.

"No, _esclavo._ You're going to 'supervise,' or one of those _idiota_ 'employees' will have no trouble doing it for you. Your choice."

Bile ran cold down Reid's throat as he considered his 'options'—watch a thirteen year-old girl bathe, or let some depraved man who would try to abuse her watch instead. "I'll do it," he said, his tone one of resignation.

"_Bueno. _Now, get in there."

The profiler tapped lightly on the door again. "Cassie?" he called out.

"Yes?"

"I…I have to come in. Are you decent?"

There was silence a minute. "Yes," Cassie said finally, and Reid slowly opened the door to see the girl standing next to the pedestal sink, her eyes fixed on the floor and a towel in her small hands.

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I really am," Reid said, his eyes wide. "But, you remember how I said I have to 'behave' too?"

"Or they'll hurt Oliver," Cassie recalled.

"Or you," Reid amended. "If I didn't, they would have sent me away and brought someone else in—someone that might want to hurt you."

"What do they want?!" the girl cried.

"They…they want you to take a bath."

"No. I won't."

"Please, Cassie. Remember…?"

The little girl's stare remained fixed on the floor. "I don't want this any more than you do—in fact, I wish we didn't have to do it. But we do."

"I-I don't want someone getting hurt," Cassie said finally, in a small voice. "Do…do you have to watch?"

Reid's mind raced. There was a pair of large bath towels that hung on a nearby towel rod, both of them a deep red color. The profiler pulled one off the rack and noticed that they were as long as he was tall. "Here's what we can do," he said. "Grab me that other towel over there, okay?"

"Okay," Cassie said, pulling the towel from the rod. Reid tossed the large towel over the thin shower rod, and the cloth hung beautifully in a large sheet. Reid then took the second towel from the girl and tossed it alongside its mate, creating a makeshift 'shower curtain.'

"It's not perfect," Reid admitted, "but it'll work. Now, I'll turn around so you can get in—in fact, I'll run the water, okay?"

"Not too hot, please," the girl said as Reid slowly began to hear bits of cloth fall to the floor. Once she was ready, Reid closed his eyes and let her get inside the bathtub sight unseen. "Okay," she called out, indicating she was safely inside the tub. As he heard the water lightly splash in the giant basin, Cassie wondered aloud, "Why would they want you to watch me?"

"Because they think you might try to hurt yourself if you're left alone," Reid admitted.

"That's silly. I'm really scared, but why…?"

"They think you might try to hurt yourself on purpose so you can try to escape," Reid clarified as he sat on the porcelain stool, the lid firmly closed and acting as a 'seat.'

"Oh." The splashing continued, and finally Cassie called out for Reid to close his eyes again so she could dry off.

"Why wouldn't you take a bath before, when you were asked to?" the profiler asked. The inquisitive part of his nature had to be satisfied.

"Because…I thought if I smelled bad, or was really dirty, the mean man wouldn't want to touch me," Cassie admitted meekly.

Reid couldn't argue with her logic. _If Raul would fall for that, I'd try it myself, _he mused.

Finally Cassie was dressed in her bedclothes, and Reid 'escorted' her back to the bed. "No, please, don't," she pleaded when the guard came to reshackle her to the bed. "It..it hurts, a little…"

"Tough," the gruff man snapped. "You'll run."

"No, I won't, please…" The sight of the girl pleading with the older man broke Reid's heart. The guard merely went back to his wicker armchair without a sound, the rifle perched across his lap. Cassie's tears shimmered down her now-washed face, and when Reid tried to get her to eat something, she refused.

_Well, I got her washed and 'behaving,' though how much I'm not sure,_ he reasoned. _Hopefully two out of three…_

"Still not eating?" Darius's voice demanded as the man sauntered into the room.

"No," Reid said, his voice cold and unwilling.

"She looks clean, though. Perhaps she's sick?"

"Maybe," Reid said, deciding to go with that excuse. _Anything to avoid a beating…_

"_Mija? _Are you sick?"

Reid's eyes told Cassie everything. "Y-yes," she stammered a little. "My-my stomach, it doesn't…"

"Well, that explains a lot," Darius said simply. _"Bueno, _esclavo. Now, your _amigo_ needs you…"

"Please," Cassie asked, her eyes brimming with tears. "Please, may I see him?"

"Not now, _mija._ Perhaps later."

The look on Cassie's face told Reid she didn't believe the dark-haired man one bit. "Come on," Darius said. "That _puto,_ he's made himself another mess…"

Sighing, Reid clutched the thin blanket covering him and 'obediently' followed, the metal ring wedged around his neck tugging as fiercely as an animal's claw. _Now what?_ he wondered. _And where is everybody? Are they ever going to come for us?_


	37. Don't Know Much About History

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Darius Luna," Gibbs said as soon as he returned from escorting Esai Cormier home. "Who is he?"

"Looks like he was a minor player in the Pena's operation, boss," McGee said, his eyes scanning the giant flat screen. "Got nabbed on an assault charge about ten years ago, but it never went to trial."

"Bet I know why," Rossi quipped, a noticeable absence of mirth to his voice.

"Sold off his victim," Gibbs guessed.

"That's a safe bet, boss. It was, however, just enough to get him in the system."

"Forensics?" Hotch asked?

"There was DNA present, but according to your witness, he was at the fire," McGee replied. "The fire might have altered the composition of his DNA slightly…"

"Or he might be dead or in jail," Morgan finished.

"Not in jail," the perky voice of the BAU's tech goddess responded. Her image took up part of the flat screen, and she began again: "Darius Luna pretty much vanished since the day of the fire. There is no electronic trail, no paper to trace, no _nothing._ Like his uncle, he merely disappeared."

"Ghosts do not kidnap people!" Chase said, her tone making a few of the men in the room jump. "There has to be something out there we're missing!" The dead silence that welcomed her ears after her outburst and the faces of surprised and slightly frightened people surrounding her made her instantly regret her words. "Sorry," she said. "I'm a little…"

Just then a phone rang. "Gibbs," the older naval agent barked, his face looking more stern than ever. "Uh-huh. Well, get in it here and we'll see, won't we?" With that, the phone hung up.

"Good news?" Hotch asked.

"Maybe. Ziva's coming back from the girl's house, says there's something we should look at. Wouldn't say what."

"Okay," Chase said, slumping into a rolling chair. "We know this guy Luna probably is the one who's restarted the 'business,' and we know he's got an agenda…"

"Targeting victims from the families of those who broke the ring last time," Morgan finished.

"Never knowing what might be happening to their loved ones is more painful than just attacking the intended 'targets' outright," Hotch concurred. "Slower, more excruciating, if not physically painful."

"Well, here's what we do know," Garcia said. "The paper trail that does exist lists Luna's parents—and, it so happens, he's the son of Pena's sister, who died 'mysteriously' about twenty years ago. Guess who he was placed with?"

"His uncle," the group in Miami said at once.

"You guys are no fun. Anyway, after the fire, nothing. However, about six months after that fire a small company sprouted up, claiming itself to be an import/export business just off the coast of Key West…"

"Give us a map of that location?" Chase asked. Garcia pulled up a map of the area—a large island just several miles west of Key West.

"International waters, meaning out of our jurisdiction," Emily said.

"Not ours," Gibbs countered. "This is a Navy case, involving a Navy lieutenant's kidnapped daughter."

"But they plan to 'do business' in this country…is there an outlet on the mainland, Garcia?" Emily asked.

"Already found it," McGee said. He brought up a third panel showing the teams a small, well-kept warehouse just near Fort Walton Beach. "Lunairia Imports," the naval agent said. "Claims to specialize in importing furniture and 'other goods' from all corner of the earth."

"Business records?" Rossi asked. "I'm sure human 'merchandise' isn't shown on that sales floor…"

"Looks like…tables, sofas, several styles of lamps, even bed and bath items," McGee said, printing off a copy of several invoices. "From all accounts, the place seems legit."

Chase looked at her old friend. –Run that new program of yours through their business records,-- she said silently. –This guy's getting his 'clients' for his real 'merchandise' somewhere…--

Kyle nodded, then pulled out a flash drive. –Watch and learn, Agent McGee,-- he signed, then began running the program. Several minutes later, Kyle had pulled up a list of fifteen or so names that seemed to make a 'lot' of purchases from the shop.

--These are most likely your 'regular clients,'—Kyle said. –The styles this guy carries are nice and all, but how many end tables does one really need?—

--"Precisely,"—Chase said, perusing the names. Looking at all three techs, she asked, --"Can you run these names?"—

"Backgrounds," Garcia said.

"Records here and abroad," McGee added

--And business transactions,-- Kyle finished. –We got it.—

Chase smiled. "Em, grab your coat—we're taking a trip."

"And the rest of us are supposed to do…what exactly?" Gibbs challenged.

"Your girl Ziva might have the key to this thing. We need to find out where Luna's real base of operations is, and how we're going to get on it." Just then the phone rang, and Chase answered immediately. "Yeah? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. _Really?_ Okay, thirty minutes."

"Change of plans?" Rossi asked dryly.

"Yeah. Mike thinks he's found a way in. I want to go check that out."

"I'm going with you," Emily said.

"Fine."

"I'm driving," Morgan said simply, snatching a pair of keys out of his pocket.

"Whoa," Chase said. "Ever hear of the word _covert_?"

"Ever hear of the phrase _don't care?"_

"Morgan, she's right. Too many strange people might tip them off."

"Well, then what do you want me to do, Hotch?" the agent challenged, staring at the lead agents in the room. "Sitting here isn't finding them any faster!"

The room instantly fell silent. "Chase, Emily, go," Hotch said quietly. "Anything we learn is better than not knowing."

The investigator and her profiler counterpart nodded silently and left. Hotch turned and said, "Morgan, a word?"

"What?"

"Come with me." Hotch opened the door and ushered the younger man out. The two turned down a corner and as they disappeared from sight Gibbs looked at Rossi with questioning eyes and a strange smile. "There's history there, isn't there?"

Rossi's only response was "Yeah." Even he wasn't up on all the details, but he'd been around long enough and had a feeling he knew what Hotch was trying to shield the younger agent from. "There's history there."

"Know the feeling. Is it a problem?"

"I have a feeling we're about to find out," the profiler said as his colleagues returned to the room, Hotch wearing his usual poker-face and Morgan considerably subdued. "Now, about this information your agent has…" Hotch said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

----

"Lady, you're a _maniac!_" Sam bellowed as he forced the car to a complete stop. "Are you _trying_ to kill everyone in front of you, or what?"

"This is the quickest way back to the office," Ziva argued, her voice very matter-of-fact. "You have a problem with that?"

"I've got a _problem_ with you trying to run down, bowl over, and flat-out destroy any pedestrian, moving vehicle and species of plant life that gets in your way!" the former Navy SEAL retorted. "Jesus, it's like Fi and her guns…"

"Guns?" Ziva asked, her interest now piqued.

"Hang on…where'd you say you were from again?"

"Tel Aviv, originally. Why?"

"Oh, crap." Sam ran a hand through his already mussed, badly graying hair and dragged it down his face. "Not _another _whacked-out gun-loving ninja freak…"

"I am not a 'ninja freak,' whatever that is," Ziva huffed. "Unless you mean that I know two dozen ways to kill someone with my little finger, in which case, yes, I am and proud of it."

"Oh, Christ." To himself, Sam noted, _Keep Fi and this chick as far away from each other as possible!_

----

"What am I looking at, guys?" Chase asked as she and Emily walked down the narrow docks towards the pair standing in a very stylish Cigarette boat. "And how'd you get the…"

"Let's just say we 'borrowed' it," Fiona said simply. "I'm afraid we haven't met properly," she said to Emily, who was stepping into the watercraft. "I'm Fiona."

"Emily. Nice to meet you." Though there was something about the lithe little woman that set the profiler on edge, her skill clearly told her that Fiona—if that was even her real name—was no threat to either them or the other government agents working this particular 'case.' Emily also had a feeling that it was because of Chase that she wasn't.

"Interesting thing about this place," Michael said as he fired up the engine. "It's about three to five miles off of Key West…"

"International waters," Chase and Emily said in unison. "We know," Chase added.

"So, basically, whoever has the gold—or the guns—makes the rules," Fiona said, a bright smile widening across her face.

"I smell a 'shopping trip,' Fi," Chase said. "You know right now I'm good for one."

"Tell me about it. Hector there could use some company."

Emily looked at Chase. "Hector?"

Chase pulled back her peasant top to reveal a customized H&K with a large magazine and a built-in silencer. "You wouldn't _believe_ the kinds of hoops I had to go through to get him, either," the investigator said. "My pride and joy, after my boys."

"Your 'boys'?" Michael said, a small smile crossing his face.

"Your mother's not totally wrong, Mike. Family first. Kyle and Oliver are it."

"Do we have to mention my mother?"

"What's so interesting you had to show us in person?"

Once a 'suitable' location was found, Fiona dropped anchor and Michael pulled out a large pair of binoculars. "Some contacts I have said that there was a man looking for some sort of special kind of 'collars'…

"The ones for people, that lock permanently," Fiona clarified.

"S&M stuff," Emily said. The reply earned her a look from her younger colleague. "Hey, deviant behavior. We specialize in that?"

"Oh-kay," Chase said. "So?"

"So when you're buying one or two, it's no big deal," Fiona said. "Start buying in lots, though, and…"

"Someone's gonna notice," the group said as one.

"These guys were trying to buy the things on the black market," Michael said. "One of 'em, kid named Raul, was trying to get a few to 'customize'."

"Ugh, God," Chase grimaced. "Creepy."

"Yeah. Well, took some doing, but we found out where the kid's been coming to after his little 'trips' to the mainland."

"Here?" Emily said, scouting the shoreline with the binoculars.

"Perfect spot," Fiona pointed out. "Quiet, secluded, no pesky laws to worry about…"

"And limited access," Michael said. "Keeps unwanted visitors out and 'merchandise' looking to escape locked up tight."

"People, not 'merchandise'," Chase said simply. "Two of 'em ours."

"And a little girl," Emily reminded her.

"I didn't forget." The thought of what might be happening to any of them right now made the investigator's skin crawl. "Million dollar question: How do we get in?"

"Ears on the ground, we're looking," Mike said. "Looks to me like they're getting ready for something big, over there," he said, pointing towards a small dock and a receiving platform nearby.

"Sale, maybe?" Fiona wondered.

"Let's hope not," Chase said.

"No, wait," Emily said. "That's it."

Chase snorted. "I'm following, but who are we going to get to be the 'buyer'?"

Emily's eyes glanced towards the unlikely pair in front of her. "What?" Michael said cautiously as the women on the boat began to smile complacently.


	38. Another Day in Paradise

**Little angst, little thrill of the 'caper.' Hope you enjoy. Usual disclaimers.  


* * *

**

"Absolutely not," Hotch said.

"Are you people out of your _minds_?!" Gibbs bellowed.

"Guys, it's perfect. There's no way in hell we're getting within a thousand yards of where they might be keeping Reid and Oliver, or the little girl." Chase's eyes were shining, her entire being now buzzing with plotting the 'caper.' "We send in a couple of 'buyers,' we've got our in."

"Two people against a whole island of armed and dangerous slavers?" Rossi mused. "Are you suicidal?"

"How long have you known me?"

"A while," the older man admitted.

"And do you think I'd deliberately try to get people killed--people I cared about?"

Rossi stared back, but could offer no response. "Bingo," the young woman said.

"Okay, so, buyers," Michael said, flopping down in one of the rolling chairs Lucy seemed to keep well in stock. "Who do you want to go in?"

"Hey," Gibbs said. "Our case. Our terms."

"My boys, I get a say," Chase said quickly. "You might have the case, but be damned if I'm going to let you…"

"Motto of the Marines," Gibbs said quickly.

"Semper Fi," Chase said just as fast. "I do study."

"Unofficial motto of the military," the older man retorted.

"Okay, you got me there," Chase said. "But how do I know you _won't_ leave them behind?"

Gibbs gave her a patented _look_. "I won't." he said, his voice very quiet.

Chase nodded once, breaking the small silence that had quickly fallen over the entire room. "Go on," she said.

"Ziva, tell us what you found," the naval agent said, shifting his gaze to the lithe woman in the corner.

"More fibers, sea salt, and a strange little piece of plant life. I sent a photo to Abby, and she's running it now.

"Well, we know the location," Fiona pointed out. "What's that have to do with anything?"

"Give us evidence to go in legally," McGee said.

"You'll excuse me, but fuck legally," Chase said. "I'm really not all that interested in seeing these guys snark their way through trial."

"Chase," Hotch said. "We can't just go in with guns blazing."

"I was thinking more along the lines of C4. And lots of it."

"I'm with her," Morgan said, surprising a few faces in the room. "And I can't believe I just said that." Turning to the mysterious Michael, he said, "What've you got in mind?"

"Look, it's simple," he said, as though the man were giving a sales presentation. "We get two people to pose as buyers, hopefully get a 'tour' of the place. Nice thing about that scenario is that we can bring in 'handlers' to deal with the 'merchandise' we're supposedly buying."

"Gives us an in," Gibbs said. "Who goes as the buyers?"

"Logically, a man and a woman," Emily said. "Seeing as Luna would likely follow in his uncle's footsteps and cater to both."

"I like Mike for one of 'em," Chase said. "Sorry, fellows, but the rest of you scream 'government.' And I'd go in, but obviously my face is a dead giveaway."

"Ziva, you up for a shopping trip?" Gibbs asked.

"Me? Why me?"

"Foreign buyer, and a beautiful woman at that," Emily replied. "One look at you and they'd be hooked. You could maybe get close enough to get a location…"

"Looks can go far, but how's your acting skills?" Michael asked. When he received several dirty looks, he added, "Just saying, I gotta be in there too…"

"We'll work on something. I'm sure she'll be fine. We know when the sale is?"

"Just got a call from a source," Michael said. "There's a boat leaving in two days from the outlet store—guest list only."

"We've gotta work fast, then, people," Gibbs said. "Clock's ticking."

----

Reid finally sat back down in the wicker chair, grateful that Cassie had given him the little blanket to cover himself with. Darius had been so rushed to get the profiler back into Oliver's room that he hadn't said anything about it, or else he wasn't all that concerned.

"_Puto's_ made a mess again," he repeated, dragging Reid back so fast the younger man had trouble keeping up. "The hell did you…?"

"O-only what was given me," Reid stammered. "The nausea is p-probably due to the head injury…until it levels off, he won't keep much down."

"Damn it. One not eating, one can't hold anything down. I should just dispatch them and start over. _Idiota de mierda _breaks him…" Strong hands had shoved Reid towards the 'mess,' a pail and warm water waiting patiently for him.

"Clean that up," Darius snapped. "And see to him."

Reid had merely nodded automatically as the man left the room, cursing in Spanish. He cleaned up the 'mess,' then tossed it in the bathtub to drain it, and then filled the pail again with a little water and sat it next to Oliver's bed.

"Sit back down," the oldest of the guards had commanded him.

"Please, couldn't I lie down?" Reid asked timidly. "I'll be right next to him…"

"Sit down," the man said again, more forcefully this time. As the agent sank into the chair, he felt the cold metal of the hateful shackle being locked around his ankle once more. His head lolled a little, and he desperately wanted to close his eyes. Next to him, Oliver was snoring softly, his chest rising and falling a little with each rhythmic breath. Through the heavy drape Reid could see the last of the sun's rays disappearing behind the horizon, and darkness began to settle in.

_Another day in paradise,_ he thought bitterly. The clock chimed seven, and Reid once again attempted to wake Oliver from his much-needed rest.

"Let me sleep, Reid," his friend whined, wincing as he automatically tried to rub his eyes open. "I'm so tired…"

"What happened, Oliver?" the younger man asked. "I came back and you had a mess on the floor."

"I dunno. Stomach hurt. Still does."

Reid worried about that. _If he doesn't eat something, things might get worse. _"Do you think you could handle some broth?"

"I dunno. Maybe. It's too late for that, anyway…" Oliver's eyes began to open, and his thoughts were starting to focus. "Wait…come back? Come back from where?"

"I had to 'look in' on Cassie."

"What for? What's he done to her?!"

"Shh, Oliver," Reid said, trying vainly not to set the guards off that lurked in the corners of the room. "Nothing. He hasn't done much of anything."

"Yet," Oliver countered. He heaved a deep breath, as though to steady himself. "Reid…he wanted to 'bathe' her…"

"He didn't." Looking towards the floor, the profiler mumbled, "I did."

"What?" Oliver's voice was soft but full of disbelief.

"Not-not like that," Reid gently assured him. "He wanted her 'cleaned up,' and she wouldn't do it herself."

"What did you do? I mean it, Reid—what did you do?!"

"I told her the truth."

"What truth?"

Reid sighed. "That if she didn't, that guy holding the keys is going to hurt both of us." He quickly added, "Standard operating procedure around here—leverage one's actions with another's pain."

"You…you _threatened _a little girl?!" Oliver raised his head quickly, nearly screaming in pain as he did so.

"No, Oliver, I didn't. I didn't have a choice."

"Yes, you did! When Raul does that to you, you like it much?!"

"Oliver…" Reid said, looking almost hurt by the accusation. "I didn't touch her. I _couldn't._ Hell, I tried as much as possible to _not _be in the room when she took that bath! You should know me better than that!"

Oliver sighed. His lips curled into his teeth, and it took a lot not to bite them in frustration. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just…" Another puff of air escaped the investigator's nostrils. "I feel so damned helpless."

"Well, a concussion'll do that to you."

"No, I mean…" Oliver's face tightened up both in thought and in pain. His head was throbbing again, and it felt as though his brain might explode. "Every time I try to help us, it backfires right in my face," he whispered, sensing Reid's terror about the unseen eyes in the room. "If I just tried harder, you know…"

"And I haven't been much help," Reid admitted, almost shamefully.

"You've had your own problems to deal with." The memory of what had happened in the bathroom told Oliver enough about Reid's 'owner' to come to an opinion about him. "And I thought I had it bad."

Reid smiled, though without mirth. "Come on. Some soup?"

The growl of Oliver's stomach answered the question for them. "Hey," Reid called out softly. "Could…could I get some soup?"

"What for?" one of the guards asked.

"I-if he doesn't eat, he'll get worse…"

A derisive snort floated up from a corner of the room. "Can't seem to keep anything down, _esclavo._ Why waste the food?"

"If he doesn't, he'll die. Y-you saw what happened to the last guy…"

A young guard came out from the shadows and struck Reid hard across the face, knocking the profiler out of the chair in which he sat. "Next time I just shoot you for mouthing off," the irate man warned. "If I were you, I'd learn your place, _puto._"

Reid tried to look up in indignance, but large stars were swirling around his eyes and his face was on fire. He took deep, steadying breaths to try and calm himself down, all the while staring at the pattern of wood slats in the detailed floor.

"Guillermo!" the older guard snapped, instantly catching Reid's attacker's attention. "Enough!"

"Needs to learn, Manuel…"

"Not our place to teach him. The boss wants them alive, so if he needs food, we have it brought up."

"What if this one lies?" Guillermo countered, pointing a stubby finger at Reid. "_Esclavos_ are full of them…"

The older guard—Manuel, apparently—walked purposefully over to where Reid lay in a heap, still holding his head. "You," he said, poking the profiler with the barrel of his gun. "Are you lying?"

"N-no, sir," Reid stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I-if he doesn't eat, or keep anything down long enough, h-he'll get sicker. He'll starve."

Manuel picked up a small device from his belt. Something was said n rapid Spanish, and the voice on the other end of the device replied likewise. "What does he need?"

"Broth, m-maybe a p-piece of bread. Something simple."

More Spanish sounded as the guard's conversation with his device continued. "It will be brought," the older man said finally, glaring both as Reid and at the guard that had assaulted him. "You, get back to your post," he snapped at the guard, his eyes blazing. "_Esclavo_ though he is, he's right—the boss doesn't like his 'merchandise' being broken, especially by his own people."

The younger guard huffed a little in indignance, but silently returned to his corner of the room.

"And you," Manuel said, tapping Reid with his foot. "You lie to me, even once, and things will go worse for you. _Comprende?_"

Reid swallowed hard. "Y-yes, s-sir," he said, his voice trembling badly. As soon as he heard the older guard return to his corner, Reid gingerly picked himself up from the floor and righted the flimsy chair in which he was expected to sit.

"Are you okay?" Oliver whispered, his face flush. Reid could see that he'd been angry with himself over not being able to stop Reid's attack.

"I'll…I'll be fine."

"Stubborn profiler."

A small smile crossed Reid lips. "You're one to talk."


	39. Pawn Shop Promises

**Buildup to the finish. Hope you enjoy. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Sam, did you get them on that list?"

"Jesus! Yes, I did—names are Steve Remington and Katrine Zelenova," the ex-SEAL replied. "Steve's already been established somewhat; it's an old identity Mike's used before, but I gotta know more about Katrine."

Gibbs sighed. "Guys?" she said, looking at what remained of the BAU team—Hotch, Rossi and Morgan. "This is kinda your specialty…"

"Luna seems to be a lot like his uncle before him," Rossi began. "Continued the 'family business,' has expanded more or less, and probably sees women to be more object-like than anything else."

"Our best bet is a woman with an attitude," Morgan said.

"Good thing you picked Ziva," McGee said as Kyle continued setting up some files on the laptop. "Talk about attitude…"

"McGee." The cutting voice of his superior made the younger naval agent fall instantly silent.

"As we were saying," Hotch continued, "it's best if the two go in as both business partners and possibly occasional lovers—makes them seem available even if they aren't, opening more doors."

"So…kick-ass woman who has no trouble 'paying with other methods'?" Sam said.

"Yes," the profilers said in unison.

"Great. Walking Sex meets Fiona on a bad day."

Several pairs of eyes stared at Sam, who slumped into one of the rolling chairs. "What?"

Kyle pounded the table, indicating he needed the room's attention. Pointing to the flat screen, he began to walk through a series of what looked like web pages for a combination massage parlor/weekend spa retreat. –This will be their cover business,-- he said, with Gibbs translating. –It's designed to look like a risqué type of Club Med, but the catch is the 'employees' aren't allowed to quit…ever.—

"IP's are set," a voice on the phone said brightly.

"You sure, baby girl?"

"As far as cyberspace goes, this thing's totally legit. I also gave them financials going back three years—gives the impression that they're looking for 'start-up merchandise' rather than buying 'replacement pieces'."

Morgan caught the note of sadness in his tech goddess's voice. "Penelope, we're going to find them, you got me?"

"I know, it's just…how can someone _think_ that way about other people?"

"Unfortunately, we managed to do just that for well over one hundred years in this country," Rossi said. "And in other cultures for thousands."

"Still…"

"Thanks, Garcia." Hotch tone was firm but not overly stern.

"Okay. Call me when it's done." The phone then clicked off.

Kyle continued flipping through the site pages, looking for anything that might tip their hand. –False numbers, working now thanks to McGee here, and the pages are set,-- he said finally. –For Ollie's sake, I hope this works.—

"Reid's too," Morgan added once Gibbs translated.

--Of course. And the little girl.—

"Where's the ladies?" Gibbs inquired, noticing that the room was noticeably absent of the female sex.

"Oh, yeah—they went on a 'shopping trip'."

"Shopping?"

"Trust me," Michael said, his face bearing a deep smile. "They're getting some useful stuff."

----

"My God," Ziva said, her jaw dropping to the floor.

"You like?"

"If only my closet at home looked this good…"

"Yeah," the petite woman said, an impish grin spreading over her face. "The custom cabinets really maximize the storage."

"Are these even _legal_?" Emily asked, her eyes taking in the sight of automatics, semiautomatics, pistols, handguns, and even three full collapsible drawers of sharp-edged bladed weapons. The profiler gingerly picked up a small throwing star and held it in her hand as though it might bite her.

"Oh, those are great," Chase said, picking another one up from the drawer. "Observe." Taking careful aim, the investigator lazily threw the weapon into a large cutting board Fiona had mounted in her spare bedroom for the purpose. "Nice, if you can get good ones."

"Everything here was either bought legally or fell off a truck," Fiona said, answering Emily's question.

"Fell off a truck?"

"Em," Chase said, sidling up to her sometime colleague as Fiona began showing Ziva the smaller handguns, "Fiona's what some might call…a 'collector'."

"I noticed. Probably has some ties to arms dealers."

"Let's say that your profiling skills continue to amaze. Though her contacts are now more casual than regulatory."

"Aha." Emily had grown to like the strange woman that was showing off her 'collection,' and if she was willing to use her 'talents' to help people (which Chase assured her Fiona did), then she was willing to look the other way.

"Oh, come now," Ziva said. "My personal weapon should work…"

"Ziva, focus—you aren't a Mossad officer, or even an NCIS agent. For the next seventy-two hours or so, you're smoking-hot-sex-on-legs. The smaller pieces will allow you to offset your 'features' without looking like a wimp."

"I _have_ been undercover before, you know…"

"Not like this," Chase said. "I wish I could go in with you."

"Your face is too recognizable," Fiona clucked. "Now, some company for Hector there…" The impish woman brought out a small .22 caliber weapon that fit snugly into the palm of Chase's hand. "For the ankle."

"Got any more?"

"A Glock…"

"Oh, my second favorite," the investigator said happily. "Let me see!"

Fiona produced the weapon, which looked like Emily's service pistol only a touch smaller. "Here," she said, handing the Glock to the profiler. "See how this feels."

Emily tried the weapon out, handling it like a professional. "Nice," she said. "Off a truck?"

"Yeah."

The woman slipped the Glock into a small holster and fitted it to her belt.

"Oh, I love that," Ziva cooed, picking up a small double-bladed knife with an ornamental handle.

"That would look lovely with your dress," Fiona said, looking at the low-cut, full length black number they'd bought the Mossad officer for the purpose of the raid. The leg slit reached all the way to the upper thigh, revealing a lot without giving too much away. "Perhaps a garter?"

"Perfect," Ziva replied. The two arranged the elastic so that it would carry the weapon on Ziva's leg without mishap.

Chase picked up several of the throwing stars and pulled a five-inch folding Benchmade out of the drawers. "Best knives in the world, Benchmades," she said as Emily saw the woman 'trying' the weapon out. "Own one myself, a three-and-a-half inch model."

"That'll pick some locks," Fiona said.

"Yes, it will," Chase concurred. "Well, are we ready?"

"I think so. I'll just grab a couple of pieces for Michael…" The little woman deftly chose a small Sig Sauer and a wicked looking Cold Steel knife about three inches long. "There. That should do it."

"Plus what we put in the car," Ziva said, remembering the two crates of 'other' assorted weapons they'd managed to come across.

"We'll need it," Chase said. "Carlos Pena had a good idea—only this time, it won't be innocent people inside should it happen to 'blow up'."

"Hear, hear," Emily said as the ladies piled into the black government SUV. "This time things'll be different."

----

"_Jefe,_" Marco asked as his boss stood in the spacious kitchen, trying out recipes with his personal chef. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Marco. We're understaffed as it is."

"But…"

"He'll work, and to our liking, or his _amigo_ up there will suffer for it. He's already suffering now, so it won't take much."

"Okay," Marco said. "Tomorrow night?"

"_Si._ And find something to toss over his chest—my _tia,_ she raised me better than to show a bare chest at the table, whether he's eating or not. But find something that shows off his 'assets' too…"

"_Si, jefe_." Marco then walked out of the room. Darius tried a small canapé and smiled. "These are perfect, Simon. I'll take that too."

"The order is for twenty, yes?"

"_Si._ Salad, main course, appetizers, wine, dessert—these are big buyers, people looking to make large purchases from me. I want nothing but the best."

"As you wish." Simon's bushy mustache hid his thin smile. "The chicken, or the beef?"

"Both. Plus shrimp. Spare no expense."

"Very well. I will call up with some possibilities tomorrow morning, is that agreeable?"

"Yes. The dinner will be for seven, so give yourself time to work." Darius then sauntered out of the room and snapped at a couple of 'employees' to get busy turning over the rooms.

"What about…?" one of the men asked, the implication clear.

"They'll have to share one, on the end," Darius said. "I need those made up, too."

"_Jefe, _there's no one else. The others are in with Raul and Curtis 'taking care' of the merchandise—it's a tall order, this one…"

Darius sighed. "Fine. Get Raul's _puto_ and start him cleaning rooms. Make sure he has a guard of two, and that the other two are chained up tight. No escape attempts. When he's done, put him back in with his _amigo_ so he can look after him."

"_Si, jefe._" The 'employees' ran upstairs to start the 'moving' and 'cleaning' process.

"Leave the girl to me," Darius said. "I wish to move her myself." _Tomorrow night has to go perfectly,_ he thought as he ascended the winding staircase. _To lose out on an investment like this would be disastrous…_


	40. Cinderella Stay Awhile

**Usual disclaimers. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**

"Come on. Move," a gruff voice said, poking Oliver in the ribs. "Get up."

"Head hurts," the young man whispered. His eyes were barely focused, and he moved a little but did not rise. "P-please, l-let me sleep…"

"_Now, esclavo. Move!" _Two pairs of strong hands forcibly lifted Oliver to a standing position. "Remember, no breaking him," one of the men said to the other. "You know what happened earlier…"

"M-my leg," Oliver mumbled, faintly hearing the rattle of metal brushing against wood. "C-can't go anywhere…"

The cold feeling vanished instantly from Oliver's ankle, and the strong hands continued to push him forward. "Walk, now," one of the guards said. "You're not going very far."

"Wh-where's Reid? Wh-what time is it?"

"Late. And your _amigo_ is busy now. Don't worry, he'll be back to look after you—someone has to clean up the messes, eh?"

Oliver's unwilling body moved slowly as each forced step took him farther down the giant hallway. "Please," he breathed, just loud enough to be heard. "Wh-where are we g-going?" A sore head lolled on stiff shoulders, and Oliver's steps were stumbling and haphazard at best.

"We're here," one of the men said, the one with the more patient voice. The small party turned into a small room that was kept dark, much like the previous room Oliver had had to occupy. "Up you go," the patient voice said, guiding the investigator to another plush bed and lying him down on top of it. Once Oliver was settled, he felt the cold bite of metal encircle his ankles—both of them—once more.

"There now. Sleep. Your _amigo_ will be back as soon as he's done," the patient man said simply.

"B-back? F-from what?" Oliver tried to pry, but all he got for his efforts was the sound of a door locking and shuffling footsteps finding their positions. Sighing, he tried to fall back to sleep, but any hope of that shattered with an ear-wrenching shriek.

"_Oliver?!_" he heard a small voice ask as warm hands touched his bare back. He thought briefly of the shirt that he'd had on at one time, and wondered why it had been taken away.

"Here, _mija,_ a familiar voice said sternly. "Come here. _Now!"_

"Oliver?" the voice said again, still holding onto the investigator's barely moving body as though for dear life. "Oliver, wake up, please…_no! _No, get _off_ me…!"

"Listen to me, _puta,_" Oliver heard Darius's familiar voice spit venomously. "Get over hear right now or one of those men in the corner will dispatch him, quick."

"Wh-what?" she whimpered, her voice trembling.

Rapid Spanish in the strange dialect Oliver didn't understand poured forth, and suddenly something hard pressed against the investigator's throbbing head. "Now, _move,_" Darius snapped. Very slowly, the warm touch of small hands faded from Oliver's back and small shuffling footsteps faded farther into the room. Oliver tried to open his eyes, but the pounding pressure of his headache made it almost impossible. The movement hadn't helped matters any.

"Cassie," the investigator murmured, as though trying to call out to her.

"Oliver, help!" the girl cried, and the sound of pounding feet rang though the young man's sensitive ears. "Please, help me!"

"I'm…I'm c-coming…" Oliver tried desperately to pick himself up, but his hands and arms wouldn't support his weight. He attempted to slide himself over to the edge of the bed, but a sharp bite and pull on his ankle quickly stopped that.

The sounds of the little girl crying out and pleading to be released tugged at Oliver's heart so hard he thought it would break. "Wh-where are you taking her?!" he tried to call out, his voice not cooperating with him. The sound of chains rattling and something heavy squishing springs filled the room, and a sharp slap to something made Oliver's eyes fully open as he heard Cassie scream and start to cry.

"Now, you're going to behave," Darius growled, staring at the little girl. "No one can hear you scream in here, and those men there?" He pointed to several points in the room, and footsteps and the sound of safety catches being released trailed through several ears. "They'll have no trouble killing that man over there and making you watch."

"No…please," Cassie cried.

"But, if you behave, and be a good girl for me, he'll be just fine. Do you understand me?"

Choking sobs obscured most of the child's words, but the implication was clear—Cassie meant to comply with her captor's wishes.

"Now, remember, very quiet. And no trouble." Darius then turned on his heel and exited the room.

"O-Oliver?" Cassie whispered, desperately wanting to talk but trying to stay quiet. "Are…are you all right?"

The investigator swallowed hard, and was very glad he was lying on his stomach. "I'll b-be okay, Cassie," he said gently, in an attempt to reassure her. "I just n-need some s-sleep…"

"O-okay." Soft sounds rustled through Oliver's ears, and the last thing he remembered before falling back to sleep again was thinking about where Reid had gone off to.

----

"Clean, _puto._"

"I-it i-is clean," Reid stammered, anger creeping into his terrified voice. The parquet floor shone like a polished marble beneath him, and he tried to stretch the stiffness out of his legs and arms. His knees were killing him. "E-every inch."

"There's dusting and turning over beds to be done. Get to work." The icy barrel of a gun prodded Reid onward towards the giant bed.

Struggling to get up, it took the profiler a couple of minutes to steady himself on his feet. Reid took halting steps to the bed, and then began to pull the sheets from the mattress. "New ones are over there," his guard snapped, pointing at a small pile of white linen. "And _pronto_, eh?"

Shame and anger boiled down the young agent's throat. This was the third room he'd been forced to clean, and he got the feeling that he'd be doing them all before this was over. _Is this what Oliver felt like?_ he wondered. What shamed him even more was that he was once again unclad—his thin blanket had been dropped in the shuffle as he'd been dragged out and into the adjacent room—and he was now being compelled to act as a whipping maid of sorts.

"Time to put you to some real work, _esclavo,_" Darius had said as he'd pulled Reid from Oliver's bedside. "I have guests, and they need to be cleaned for and seen to."

_Guests?_ Reid thought. Though he remembered Oliver's conversation about the doctor that had treated him, there was still a small glimmer of hope that maybe _someone_ might take pity on them and try to help them escape. _Maybe that someone will be someone we know,_ he reasoned, realizing that an undercover operation wouldn't be out of either his or Oliver's team's purview. _Just maybe…_

"I want these rooms cleaned and stripped," Darius had said suddenly. Reid was pushed onto the floor and handed a bucket and a cloth. "Everything washed—floor, lamps, tables, bedsheets. Perfection, _comprende?_"

Reid didn't answer. He hoped his silence would be taken for assent. "_Bueno,_" Darius replied. "Now, get to work."

"W-wait," the profiler stammered. "What about…"

"Someone will wake your _amigo_ at the proper times," Darius assured him. "Until then, clean." With that, the man had walked out.

Reid's back was sore. He'd managed to finish his third room, but it was slow going. He was running on almost no sleep, and his stomach growled pitiably. The bite of turkey sandwich he'd had in Cassie's room earlier was long forgotten, and the chiming of the small grandfather clock told Reid that it was going on eleven o'clock at night."

"Faster, _puto,_" his guard cajoled, sounding impatient. "I had plans tonight."

_I had plans too,_ Reid thought irritably, pulling a fitted sheet into place over the large mattress. _And I can assure you, they didn't have me working as a nude maid for an egotistical deviant who enjoys psychological torture and humiliation. _A part of him wanted desperately to say this aloud, but he knew that both Oliver and Cassie would be hurt—possibly killed—if he did. _No matter how degrading and humiliating this is, I can't give him a reason…_

The bed was finished, and long prunish hands picked up the white cloth once more, its tight weaves smelling of citrus. Reid slowly scrubbed down the furniture, making sure he didn't miss any cracks or crevices. _I can't give them a reason to hurt me either—I'm the only one left standing._

"Finally," one of the guards whined. "Come on, there's one more to do."

_Thank God,_ the profiler thought. _One more and I can maybe get some sleep…_

-----

It was three in the morning when Reid was finally led to the new room that Oliver was being kept in. His eyes were blurring from the lack of sleep, but he thought he saw two small beds standing about two feet from each other. _Why two beds?_ he wondered. _Why not a large one, like before?_

Reid fell into the wicker chair that had been provided, and he once again felt the cold bite of metal on flesh—only this time, the ankle was the left instead of the right. The profiler picked his head up, and he realized he was chained on the opposite side of Oliver—the one furthest away form the second bed in the room. _God, what I wouldn't give to lay down on that bed,_ he thought desperately. _Just for a minute…_

"Reid? That you?" The familiar voice was mumbling, but its words were coherent.

"Yeah, it's me. Time for your wake-up call," he said, trying to bring a little levity to the dark room.

"Wh-where were you?"

"Playing Cinderella," he said. "Mice and all."

"Mmm," Oliver said. "Nice." With that he turned over and fell back asleep. The fact that both of them were nude once again did not escape Reid's notice, even with his oncoming delirium from the lack of sleep. Though he could usually get by on about five hours a night, Reid knew that if he didn't sleep soon he would start to have serious problems, especially with concentration and balance. _Gotta stay focused,_ he thought as he tried to make himself comfortable in the chair. _Gotta keep an eye out…_

Seconds later, the profiler was sound asleep, having fallen out of the chair and into a snoring heap onto the wooden floor.


	41. Head Over Heels

**Now the plot really begins to thicken. Is anyone still with me?**

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

  
**

"Stop staring at my ass."

Michael stepped back a little from the peeved woman, holding his hands out in a gesture of surrender. He whistled once as his 'partner' stepped out of the office that had been designated as a 'changing room' for the Israeli woman. "Wow," he said. "I think these people are gonna _love_ you."

Ziva snorted. The last thing she wanted was some filthy, disgusting dealer of human misery and suffering trying to get 'cute' with her. "Let's just get this over with," she said simply, her face a mirror to her emotions.

As the pair walked out, Sam met them just before they exited the borrowed office door. "Now, here's the entrance tickets, the phones with the insane GPS locators, and, of course, the plastic." The man handed over several rolls of crisp green bills, bills that had been 'donated' by a certain private investigation firm. "I'll be getting my investment back in spades," Chase said as she forked over the cash. "Ollie's priceless. Reid too."

--Plus you plan to steal Luna's money,-- Kyle said.

--Damn skippy,-- his friend replied in kind. –Soon as that account information comes through…--

"Why have the cash if we're going to spend more in a wire transfer?" McGee wondered.

"Looks more authentic if you can pay cash for one or two 'pieces'," Michael explained. "Proves you're willing to make an investment."

"Besides, McGee, would _you_ really walk around with that kind of money on you?" the young man's superior asked, the sarcasm evident.

"Point taken," McGee said. "Listen, as soon as he makes the wire, we can use it to dump his account. All we need is him to take the bait."

"Leave that to us. Just…be ready when it's time, eh?" Michael said, looking pointedly at his companions. "Not like that bank job…"

"Bank job?" Hotch asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Robbery gone bad, hostage situation, loooong story," Michael said quickly. "You wouldn't believe what I had to do to stop them…"

"On second thought, never mind."

A giant grin flashed over the man's face. "Thanks. Well, it's a long drive to Fort Walton Beach. Gotta run."

Chase walked the pair out the door, staying uncharacteristically silent as the three different crime-fighters walked towards the exit. "Look," she said to both of the undercover 'agents' as she left them on the curb. "Ollie and Reid…they mean the world to us. Find them, as soon as possible?"

"We will," Ziva promised.

"Yeah," Michael said, sitting in the driver's seat. Sam had filled his ear about Ziva's driving skills, and he'd insisted on taking the wheel. With a nod, the car's engine turned over and turned onto St. Alameda.

"She's in love with him," the Mossad officer murmured.

"What?"

"The Davis woman. She's in love with him."

"Her partner or the genius doctor?"

"Her partner. Oliver."

"Call me curious, but how do you know?" The borrowed Ferrari—a favor taken out by Sam from a 'lady friend'—began its ascent onto the highway and north towards the Panhandle.

"She called him 'Ollie.' I do not know of many who would answer to that name, given or not."

Michael smiled. That had been his indicator as well. _Smart girl,_ he thought to himself as he drove on. _Maybe this charade will work after all._

----

_Two hours is not enough sleep,_ Reid thought as he was shoved from room to room carrying boxes and bags and trays and even furniture from one spot to the next. It had felt like mere moments since he'd fallen asleep that he was violently pulled from the floor where he'd fallen in a heap and pressed back into service. The chinking and clanging of the chains that circled his feet were a constant reminder that he was nowhere near out of this waking nightmare yet.

"You're going to pay attention and _behave _tonight," Darius warned. "I want my customers getting a look at you, give them some expectation as to the type of merchandise they can expect to buy."

The statement made Reid's blood run cold. "Please…don't s-sell me…"

Darius merely shook his head. "Raul'd have my ass, though I'm sincerely tempted to do just that. You behave, and maybe you won't be."

Reid swallowed hard. _I can't let them sell me,_ he thought fiercely. _Not now…_

In the hours that had passed, the profiler somehow had managed to perform every chore demanded of him nearly flawlessly, though several times in the last hour he almost dropped trays filled with silverware or foodstuffs out of sheer exhaustion. "Drop the food, and it comes out of your hide," one of his guards snapped, catching a platter full of canapés. "And you'll clean the mess—with your tongue."

The young agent struggled to stay awake. He knew that Oliver and Cassie were being held upstairs, and their safety made the perfect leverage against the fading young man. _Focus, Spencer,_ he chided himself. _One wrong move and its curtains for you…_

As the sun began to fade behind the tree-lined horizon, Reid felt dangerously close to fainting from lack of rest. He managed to steal a moment to lie against a wall, closing his eyes for the briefest of seconds.

"Eyes open, _puto_!" one of the employees snapped, shoving something into Reid's hands. "Boss says to put that on and be quick about it. The guests are here, and it's showtime."

Reid looked down at the object that had been thrust at him. It was thin and soft, and it took a minute for his tired eyes to focus on the fabric that melted like butter as he touched it.

"Stop staring and get it on," the guard hissed.

Gingerly, Reid put on the garment. He found it was much like the thin open shift that Raul had forced him to wear at dinner—the one where he'd been forced to intake the vile wine. Letting the fabric hang over his shoulders, he found it covered his chest while leaving other areas of his frame fully exposed.

_Why make me wear it at all, if it's not covering anything of importance? _Reid wondered. The smell of roast beef and fresh salad dressing wafted up through his nose, and his head began to pound from the lack of food he'd been allowed. _A single piece of dry bread at five-thirty in the morning does not a full day's diet make,_ he thought. The profiler blankly grasped the large tray he was expected to carry out as one of the 'employees' served the dish ti held onto the guests' plates.

"Here we have an example of one of our better pieces," Darius said as Reid stoically walked behind the 'employee' out into the spacious dining room. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at Reid's barely clothed form, gaining an 'appreciation' of the young man and just what kinds of 'assets' he could provide. As the young agent stood silently holding the serving tray, he wished with all his might that he could crawl into a hole deep in the ground and cry. A hand reached up and 'took stock' of his posterior region, and it took every bit of willpower he had left in reserve to not cry out in surprise or shame.

"Nice, nice, very nice," a man's voice said loudly, as though perhaps he'd already had a little too much of the strong wine. "That one for sale, Mr. Luna?"

"Please, call me Darius, Mr. Remington."

"Steve."

"But, I'm afraid this one is spoken for," Darius continued.

"Pity. True pity. He'd fit in beautifully at our 'resort,' wouldn't he, doll?" the man said, a wide grin flashing over his face. Reid managed to catch what had to be his fifth or sixth wind of the never-ending day and took the brief moment to study the man's features. There was something in his eyes that said volumes to the profiler, but…_how can I be sure?_ he wondered.

"Mmm. Yes. We had to let one of our better male 'hosts' go recently," the woman across from the man said, her tale intriguing a few of the 'guests.' "Nice form, good features—he'd bring in a killing."

"Very true, Miss Zelenova," Darius said, gesturing towards Reid. "Perhaps you might like to try him, later?"

_No, _Reid feared. _No, no, dear God—don't sell me off! I've done everything you've asked!_

"I may take you up on that offer," the foreign woman said. Reid tried to place her accent—maybe Arabic, or Middle Eastern, or Russian? _Where's Emily when you need her?_ Reid wondered, his thoughts jumbled and lost as he desperately tried to fight off sleep. As the woman continued her 'tale,' Reid's eyes began to droop and he wavered on his feet. The chains rattled a little on the tile floor, and the next thing he knew he was falling right into the beautiful woman's lap, the huge tray of roast beef crashing on top of him and splattering all over her dress.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice barely audible. "Please, forgive me…"

"Is this what you call a 'fine specimen,' Mr. Luna?" another woman said, her voice high and screechy. "If the rest are as clumsy as he is…"

"No, I don't think so," the man—Remington, Reid remembered—said quickly. "That one looks overtired, if anything."

"Madame, I am truly sorry," Darius apologized profusely, trying to placate the pretty woman while kicking Reid a few times for good measure. _"Get up, puto!" _he hissed, motioning to several other 'servers' to collect the barely-conscious Reid and get him out of the hall.

"No, let me," Remington said. "If you please, sir."

"Yes, yes, by all means. I am truly sorry…"

"You, come," the man snapped, and Reid tried to crawl out on his hands and knees, but he was so exhausted he could barely make it a few feet. "Pick him up," Darius said quickly, pointing at two nearby servers. "See to the gentleman, please."

"Grab his ass and bring him out here," Remington demanded, sounding more and more irate. The servers hauled Reid onto the back lawn, only too happy to let their employer's 'guest' handle the young man.

"You ruined my girl's dress," the man said sternly, shoving Reid with his foot.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Reid whispered. "Pl-please, don't hurt them…"

Remington knelt down onto the ground, hovering over Reid's barely clad frame. "You Reid?" he whispered, and the question both surprised and puzzled the dazed profiler.

"Y-yes. Spencer Reid. Wh-why?"

"Your friend, he with the little girl?"

"Y-yes," Reid stammered, waiting for the inevitable blow to come.

"Where?"

"Wh-who are you?"

"Let's say we've got mutual friends. Now, where are they?"

"Up-upstairs, last room on the left. There's guards, l-lots of them."

"Okay. Hang in there, we'll get you out, all right?"

Reid stared up at the mysterious man, taking in the large eyes that were full of both solitude and expression. "Thank you," he managed to whisper as 'Remington' began to make a show of 'beating' him. "And maybe next time you'll learn to stand on your own two feet!" the man shouted, pulling the profiler up onto his feet and back into the estate house. "Take this one up to my room," he ordered the guards. "I want to deal with him further there. My doll deserves something for her humiliation."

"Yes, sir," the guards said at once, taking Reid's motionless body by the arms and dragging him up the winding staircase.


	42. Trying to Survive

**The plot thickens. Hope you enjoy. Usual disclaimers.**

* * *

"Thank _God,_" Ziva said as soon as she closed the door to the ornate room she and 'Remington' were to share during their stay. Reaching into her bag, she deftly picked out a white, lacy sundress that showed off all the right features and flew into the bathroom to change. The poor young man that had collapsed had saved her from a night of lecherous ogling, as she knew several of the 'guests' had been eyeing her from the leg slit in the cocktail dress that was now soiled. While she showered and changed, she heard a small commotion just outside the thick teak door.

"Get in there!" she heard her 'lover' demand, and there were sounds of steady feet marching in time while something landed onto a squeaky surface. "Thanks, fellows—I'll take it from here, eh? And, ah, let your boss know I'd like a word?"

"_Si, senor,"_ a strange voice said, and then the muffle of footsteps left the room, slamming the giant door behind them.

Ziva finished up in the bathroom and quickly tossed the sundress on, watching it fall just to her mid-thigh. As she exited the intimately-sized bathroom, she saw the young man who'd fallen on her lying in a heap on the giant king-sized bed, breathing hard and looking as though he was expecting a beating.

"I'm heading downstairs in a minute, doll," 'Remington' said. "I had this brought up for you…"

"What for?"

"So you can 'see' to him personally. Though I gotta say, I'm not sure there's much left. What this guy does to his pieces…" The sound of Michael's voice was obviously put on for effect, and he swirled a finger around the room to indicate he was checking for bugs.

"Ah. Yes. I still say he's a gorgeous creature; our 'guests' would certainly love him, no?" Ziva started looking underneath the nooks and crannies of the furniture and moldings on one end of the room while Michael searched the other with ferocity. When both came up empty, Michael brought over two chairs while Ziva grabbed a blanket and a glass of water from the small bathroom.

"Here, drink this," the Israeli woman said sternly, gently picking Reid's lolling head up and pressing the glass to his lips. "Put something back into you…"

Reid greedily drank the water he was offered; in fact, he was drinking it so fast Ziva had to pull it away from the suffering man. "Not so fast," she warned.

"I know," he breathed. "Drinking w-water, or any liquid f-for that matter, t-too fast in-increases the ch-chance of in-intaking t-toxic amounts."

The pair looked at each other. "They did say he was a genius," Michael said.

Once Reid was settled again, Ziva sat back down in the chair after returning the glass. "Dr. Reid?" she asked.

"Y-yes," the young man replied. He looked so thin and weak that a strong wind might knock him over. "Wh-who are you?"

"Like I said, kid, we've got 'mutual friends.' And they're pretty eager to get you back," Michael said in an even voice. "Hey, I've got to go back downstairs, make an appearance. You think you can…?"

"I too can 'put on a show'," Ziva said simply, and with that Michael headed back for the door. Before he headed downstairs, however, he strolled down towards the end of the hallway and turned left. He gently tried the doorknob, finding that it was locked.

_Sure sign you've got someone in there who doesn't want to be,_ he thought as he gingerly tried other doors to see if he got the same response. The door on the left was the only door that wasn't unlocked. _So the kid was right—that's where they are. _Michael quickly turned on his heel and started down the stairs, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. "Sam? Yeah, it's me. Listen, we found the doctor, and we know where the other two are—big estate house, second floor. Pack up and head out." Once the phone was closed, Michael descended the winding staircase and flashed his patented winning smile. "Now, about that 'merchandise'…

----

The limp form in front of Ziva trembled slightly, almost cowering under her gaze. _What on earth has he been put through?_ she wondered idly as she presented her first question.

"Where is Oliver Lawrence, doctor?"

Coughing slightly, as though he were choking on his own spit, the young man answered, "L-last d-door on the l-left. E-end of the h-hall. There's g-guards, a-and they…they're chained…"

"Hmm." Ziva's face pursed. "Problematic, but not too much." Looking down at the doctor's shivering form, Ziva tossed the blanket over him and watched in sadness as he clutched the swath of fabric so tightly she thought his fingers would break from the strain. "You've been kept like that?" she wondered aloud, her mind wandering a little.

"N-naked, m-mostly," Reid murmured. "Trying t-to break us."

Ziva nodded once. "Are you ill?"

"J-just tired. O-Oliver, though…"

_Oh, God, _the woman thought. "What happened to Oliver?"

"He…he got hit, in the head. Con-concussion. Please, d-don't hurt him," the young agent cried out, tears streaming down his face. "Don't…don't let them…"

"Shh, shh," Ziva said simply, unused to being the 'comforting' type. However, it was painfully clear that this man was quite literally at the end of his emotional rope, and that if she were not careful, he could snap. "We're working on getting you out of here—all of you."

"A-all of us?"

"We know about the little girl, doctor. Is she here?"

"C-Cassie?"

"Yes, Cassie. Where is she?"

"W-with Oliver. Same room. Please, he's going to hurt them…"

"Why?"

"B-because I 'misbehaved.' I-I ruined your dress…"

"Believe me, doctor, it was no loss. Hated that thing anyway. Now, you get some sleep."

"He'll…he'll come after me…"

"Who, Luna? I doubt it. As far as anyone's concerned, you're being 'punished,' and I'm having a little 'fun'."

"N-no, Raul…"

Ziva's eyebrow raised slightly. "Raul?"

"D-Darius's '_primo',_ wh-whatever that is. He…he bought me to use as his '_querido'…_

"My God," Ziva said as she mentally translated the foreign words. "That's what they were hiding…"

"Wh-what?"

The lithe woman immediately clammed up. "Ah, nothing. You rest. We're going to need your help to get everyone out of here."

Reid nodded slightly, then passed out as the clutches of sleep took him. Ziva stared at the unconscious man before her, completely amazed. _People will do almost anything to survive,_ she realized, _but it still surprises you just how far they'll go…_

----

Raul was busy 'cleaning' the last of the next night's merchandise when he saw Darius walk into the 'hold' with one of his guests. The frightened girl he was 'bathing' shrieked and screamed as the shock of cold water hit her delicate skin, and she writhed as the freezing droplets continued to assail her.

"Shut up, _perra,_" the man hissed as he strained to hear his _primo's _conversation. "I can't hear."

Nearby, 'Remington' was having a look at his 'host's' operation. "Gotta get a feel for how the pieces are treated," the man explained. "Can't have damaged merchandise, you understand…"

"No, _senor,_ of course," Darius said. He'd looked into this 'Remington' and his lovely lady partner, and found that they were flush with both cash and opportunity for a long-term 'arrangement' in his special market. "Once again, I am truly sorry about the lady…"

"Well, she's having loads of fun with that one, no question," Remington assured him. "In fact, she's got her heart set on him."

"I would, _senor,_ but…"

"I'm willing to pay three times what was promised. My doll, only the best for her, you know?"

_Three times! _Darius thought greedily. _The profit I could make…! _He chuckled a little, then leaned in conspiratorially. "I suppose it couldn't hurt," the oily man admitted. "After all, his 'buyer' is still in hock to me. I could use the profit."

"So we're agreed?"

Darius mulled it over a minute. _"Si,_ we are agreed. My _primo_ will have to find another. I shall have the appropriate steps taken. Now, you mentioned being interested in some girls…"

"Yes," 'Remington' said, casually leading his 'host' down the corridor. "Dark haired beauties, preferably…blondes are much too boring…"

As the voices trailed, Raul's anger crept through him like ice in his veins. _How dare he take my _querido_!_ he thought furiously. _We'll see who gets him, no question…_ He grabbed the shivering, unclad girl from the 'shower' and shoved her forward. "Move. _Vamanos!"_

Quaking with fear, the young girl complied, terrified as to what might happen to her next.


	43. You Belong to Me

**The plot thickens further. Hope you enjoy. Usual disclaimers.**

**A/N: I recommend listening to the song indicated by the title--a piece by Carly Simon. You'll understand as you read.**

**

* * *

**

Cassie couldn't sleep. Though the room was quiet—the soundproofing hadn't been a lie, after all—there was a range of annoying lights that kept blinking through the cracks of the heavy drape that covered the window. The girl tried to climb towards the head of the bed she was chained to, angling for a better look at what was going on.

"Sit down, _senorita,_" one of the guards warned.

"Wh-what's going on down there?" she asked, trying to keep her fear out of her voice.

"Not your concern. Now, sleep."

Sleep, however, was not forthcoming. Cassie curled up into a ball on the metal-framed bed and stared at the large shadow she knew was Oliver, lying on the bed next to hers. He had moaned a little over the course of the day, and the girl knew that the pain in his head had to be excruciating.

Below, the lights began to dance as people continued moving in and out of the area they illuminated. Cassie tried once more to peer out of the shrouded window, but she was roughly jerked back from the glass.

"Once more, _puta_, and your friend suffers," the guard snapped, his voice incredibly stern and unbending. "There is nothing down there that requires your attention."

"The…the other man, his friend," Cassie asked, pointing at Oliver's gently snoring frame. "Wh-where is he?"

"Working. Now, sleep."

The girl finally complied, not wanting Oliver to suffer more. _Why won't they tell me where Spencer is?_ she wondered. _What are they doing to him?_

-----

"That was Mike. Seems they've found your doctor friend…pretty bad shape," Same said simply as he walked over towards the large newspaper truck that Fiona had managed to 'borrow.' The rest of the combined 'team' was busy loading it with the contents of the ladies' 'shopping trip' and a few random laptops. Kyle was especially particular about these, as he was going to have to run logistics from the mainland.

--Sorry, Kyle,-- Chase said. –You're of better use running interference here.—

--I want to go,-- Kyle shot back. –I can't let them hurt them anymore.—

--Last time you threatened someone, you nearly took out half of a police station in North Dakota,-- Chase reminded him. –Besides, your shooting's still terrible.—

--Reid is worse.—

--Reid gets lucky. Plus, I think he needs 'motivation' in order to get the shot off. You can't hit the broad side of a barn even when someone's threatening to kill you.—

--Damn it, Chase…--

--There's a thousand things to do in the meantime,-- his boss pointed out. –McGee's got to show you how to patch into our coms for the subtitles, we need the blueprints for this place we're invading, and I'm sure that arranging some 'private medical care' would be in order…--

Kyle sighed in resignation. –Fine. But next time I get to go in.—

--Hell, I'll even let you shoot the bad guy.-- Chase placed a hand on her best friend's shoulder. –Listen, without you being as stubborn as you are, we might _never_ have found out what happened to them…not until it was too late. Don't forget that.—

The investigative tech smiled a wan smile. –Just get him back in one piece, huh?—

The two old friends shared a look that spoke volumes. After a second, Kyle ran off to place a few phone calls.

Outside, it was starting to come as no surprise to the profilers that the strangest—and most illegal—stuff seemed to 'appear' out of the back of the SUV. "Hang on," Morgan said as he lifted a few bricks of a white, grayish substance. "This isn't…"

"Cake frosting," Fiona said.

"We're smuggling the guys out in a giant cake?"

"Oh, her cooking skills are a marvel," Sam said, trying to keep a straight face. "Especially when she's got a mission."

Fiona smiled at the backhanded compliment, mentally reminding himself to 'redecorate' his new 'lady friend's' condo later. "Hand me that bag, would you?" she asked Morgan sweetly.

"What's it got in it? Candles?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Hold it," Rossi said, and strangely everyone stopped. "How'd we get a box of AK-47s on this?"

"Fell off a truck," Fiona, Chase and Emily said in unison.

"Big truck."

"Yes, it was."

After another two hours, the 'supply truck' was fully loaded and the teams were on the road to Fort Walton Beach. Kyle had stayed behind, claiming he could run interference from Lucy's offices. –Go, now,-- he signed furiously, shoving a hesitant McGee out the door. –In seven hours you have to be on a pontoon ferry I found.—

Sam looked up at that, once Chase translated it. "You 'found'?"

--You're not the only one that knows people. Now, go!—

Two hours later, Kyle managed to borrow a car from Lucy and headed out to a small private airport. He waited patiently as the Lear circled the runway as it landed, and was smiling as he saw a bespectacled head emerge from the doorframe.

--Welcome to Miami, Dr. Mallard,-- he signed, waving for good measure.

----

Soft snores emanated from Reid's chest. He was mercifully asleep, practically unconscious from the hours of forced labor and the overwhelming weight of his fear that clung to him like a stubborn cloak. There were no guards in the room—a welcome relief—and the lady had stepped out for a moment.

As Reid slept on, he never noticed the sound of the thick teak door creaking on its hinge as it cracked open. The shuffle of bare, dry feet floated over the parquet flooring that covered the second story, and soon a caramel-colored hand was roughly pressing against the profiler's mouth. Lacking oxygen, Reid instantly startled awake, his eyes wide with terror as he looked up into the eyes of a man he prayed he'd never see again.

"Not a sound, _querido,_" Raul said softly, drawing closer to his 'prize'. "He thinks he can sell you away…but you and I, we are not finished yet." Long fingers snapped a chain around the hateful band locked around the agent's throat, and Reid nearly choked as Raul tugged sharply on the metal 'leash.' "Now, come. _Quietly._"

Reid's eyes widened in sheer panic. _Not now,_ he thought, his brain muddled from waking up so suddenly from a deep sleep. _Please, God, not now…_

"You're mine, _querido,_" Raul said, his voice taking on a commanding yet seductive tone. _"Mine._ Because I love you."

Unwilling feet drew Reid's thinly clad body towards his tormentor. The pressure on his neck was building, and Reid worried that he might pass out from a lack of air. "D-don't, please," he breathed, his voice barely audible. "I-I can't breathe…"

Raul paid the younger man no mind. "He wants to take you from me? _No pienso tan. _I know a place…"

_No. No. No! _Reid's sluggish mind cried out, his voice and lips struggling to come up with the sounds to articulate his thoughts. He tried to pull away from his lustful captor, but the cold prick of a wide knife blade against his bruised throat made him suddenly compliant. Raul dragged the profiler towards the left of the room, where a large closet stood. Wrenching open the door, Reid discovered that the closet wasn't a 'closet' at all.

"End rooms fitted with escape routes," Raul cooed lovingly into his 'prize's' ear. "Useful, no?"

"Please, don't…"

"No, _querido. _One way or another, you belong to me. And we haven't finished our 'lessons' yet." Falling silent, Raul forced Reid down the hidden staircase and down below to the basement. The dark shock of sky nearby surprised the terrified man, and it frightened him even more as Raul dragged him into the engulfing night.

----

"Dr. Reid? Dr. Reid?"

Ziva had returned from her 'errand'—she had 'accidentally' tried to open the door where Oliver Lawrence and the little girl were being held, and found that it was locked tight. The sounds of footsteps coming from behind the door startled the woman, and a rough, weathered face answered her knock. "Move along," the man had snapped.

"Move…but why? This is my room!"

"_Senora,_ you are mistaken. The 'guard' then pointed her down the hallway. "This room is being worked on."

"I…maybe you're right," Ziva had replied, acting ashamed and a little drunk. "Little too much…"

"_Bueno. Buenos noches."_

"Likewise," she called back as she 'stumbled' back to her room. Though the moment had been brief, Ziva was sure she'd heard a small voice cry out, just for a second—and the voice was female.

Upon entering 'her' room, Ziva immediately noticed that the young profiler she'd left on the bed had gone missing. After checking the bathroom, the woman fired up all the lights, desperately searching for the missing man.

_Where could he have gone to? _the Israeli woman wondered, suddenly reaching for the closet door. When she opened it, however, she was in for a surprise.

_He didn't just leave. Someone took him. _Ziva immediately reached for her cell phone, punching in the number Michael had given her._ The question is, where?_


	44. Cherish

**Usual disclaimers. Hope you enjoy...

* * *

**

Warm air drifted across Reid's exposed frame like a silk ribbon being draped over his thin shoulders. His eyesight was hampered from the sudden waking and lack of rest, but he felt the tug of his 'collar' every few feet as he was forced onward into the night.

"Where are we going?" he asked timidly, hoping that Raul was in a talkative mood. The emotions he'd managed to glimpse in the older man's eyes was a jumble of lust, love, and anger at…_ At what? _

"They can't have you," he heard Raul murmur, yanking the chain he held like a lifeline or a security blanket. "They can't have you, because you're mine…"

Reid's feet were stumbling helter-skelter as he continued onward, and a couple of times he nearly tripped over something hard and fibrous that jutted out of the ground. "Raul, please…"

"Shh, _querido. _Shh. We're almost there."

_Almost where?_

Suddenly a strong smell wafted up through the profiler's nostrils—the smell of salt and of algae—and the roar of the ocean filtered through the dense green canopy of palms and vines that created a small secluded cove only a few hundred feet away.

"_Magnifico,_ isn't it?" Raul breathed. "No one comes out this far. It's perfect."

Reid shivered despite the warm air. "P-perfect for wh-what?" he stammered, the scent of the sea air beginning to revive him from his trance-like state."

"For this," Raul said, drawing Reid closer as his lips parted for a kiss.

"No," Reid said, pulling away. "No more." He took a step back, trying to put some distance between himself and his tormentor.

"_Si, querido,_ there will be more," the older man promised. Reid struggled as he tried to fight off the strong hands that jerked his skull forward to comply with Raul's advance. "Much, much more. Have you ever made love on a beach?"

The agent fell slack, hoping to startle Raul into stopping his unwanted advance. "No. I-I won't…"

"Come." Raul pulled Reid down from the prickly green grass that grew wild near the cove and marched him onto the cool, grainy sand that wedged between his toes. The profiler resisted with every step, but there was the promise of the knife blade that the older man kept firmly in his left hand. "There's nothing like it, _querido._ A perfect spot for our 'first time'…"

Frightened, Reid dug his heels into the dry white sand, pulling away from the depraved man holding his 'leash' taut. "No. _No!"_

"Cry out all you like, _querido,_" Raul taunted. "No one can hear you but the roar of the ocean, and he's not much help."

Reid continued to pull away from Raul, his neck being cruelly cut by the band of metal that was tightly encircling his throat. "I won't," he cried. "Do you hear me?! I _won't!_"

Raul clucked slightly. "It's all right, _querido,_" he said gently, pulling Reid close and gripping the younger man by the shoulders. "It's always scary, but we've worked up to this…"

"You're _insane! _Depraved, disgusting, sick, and _insane!" _Reid screamed, hoping against all hope someone could hear him at the estate nearby. _Where are those people, the ones from before?!_ he wondered feverishly as Raul's gentle, loving demeanor turned blacker by the second.

"I _disgust _you?!" Raul shrieked, backhanding Reid so hard he fell to the sand spitting blood from the corner of his mouth. "Here I work so hard to please you, and I _disgust_ you?!"

"Stay away from me," Reid warned, curling into a ball. A glimmer of moonlight danced across the flat of Raul's blade, and the sharp instrument was creeping dangerously close to where the weakened profiler lie curled on the sand. "Don't…don't you touch me!"

Raul leaped onto Reid nearly naked frame, pulling the thin shift from his chest, tearing the fabric as he fought to make his _querido_ more 'accessible.' "Now, you listen to me," he said, the stern calmness making Reid shiver with terror. "We're going to have some 'fun,' and you're going to do _exactly_ as I say."

"No. I don't care. Go ahead and kill me," Reid said, struggling violently underneath Raul's weight. The lack of sleep and sustenance had already given him a disadvantage, but he still fought hard to preserve what remained of his dignity. "I won't do it."

The cool blade prickled against the soft skin just under Reid's throat, making the profiler instantly stop struggling. "No, _querido,_" Raul cooed. "You see? There is reason yet to live…"

"This isn't living. Not like this."

"You would rather be like your _amigo?_ Broken, beaten?" The knife blade moved from Reid's throat and began a long, slow dance that trailed down Reid's bare chest and down his midsection. "I could gut you right here, like a fish," he murmured. "You say you don't love me…then what's the point?"

_Oh, God, no,_ Reid thought desperately. _Not like this…not when I'm so close to escape or rescue…_

The knife trailed lower, and soon Reid stopped struggling. "Perhaps I should 'change your religion,' _puto,_" Raul said lightly, an insane gleam in his eyes.

"Please…"

"You want this?"

Reid shook his head. "No…"

"Then settle in, _querido,_" Raul said. "We're going to have some fun…" The older man ran his long fingers against the more intimate parts of Reid's makeup, and the profiler swallowed hard as he felt wet lips being pressed against certain areas of his anatomy. The cold bite of the blade remained present, being carefully wedged against the younger man's inner thigh.

_He cuts that and I'm dead,_ Reid realized, remembering the coroner's report in Georgia all those months ago. _He'll drain me… _The agent tried to reach for the weapon, but his hands didn't quite reach far enough to grab the knife without causing himself irreparable damage. Reid could feel Raul's hands grasping his lower body, and he struggled as much as he could to dislodge him from that area. Above him, he could only see the shadows of palm fronds waving in the warm breeze, and below him the dry sand bored itself into his back and posterior, its grains crawling up into places that Reid couldn't reach. The roar of the ocean drowned out his shouts and cries, and he thought he could faintly hear a night bird singing a mournful tune as he was violated once more by this creature that had overpowered him.

"Oh, _bueno,_ _bueno,_" Raul said. "A little fight makes it all the more satisfying, _querido._" The man sat up and repositioned himself on top of Reid's thin frame, quickly pulling off his shirt and shorts. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes…we were about to try something new…"

_Dear God, no…_ Reid thought. "No," he whimpered, shifting under Raul's lustful gaze. "No!" Before Reid knew it, his hands were flying upward, and a few times his fists struck his captor in the legs and chest, causing Raul to grow more and more irate as he batted them away.

"Stop fighting, _puto,_" he ordered. "Play nice, or it'll go harder for you…" The moonlight glinted off of the wicked knife that now hovered just inches from Reid's chest. "Are you going to play nice?"

"Get off of me," Reid said evenly, staring hard at the weapon before him.

"No chance," Raul replied. "Now, turn over."

"No."

"I said, _turn over._"

Reid shook his head. "No," he breathed, closing his eyes.

Rough hands physically lifted Reid's left side from the ground and flipped him like a pancake. "Now, be still…it won't hurt too much…"

Reid thrashed and struggled, desperate to crawl out from under Raul's weight. He managed to make a little headway, and once the older man lifted himself up just enough to 'prime' himself, Reid scurried out from the long narrow hole his thrashing was starting to create.

"Get _back_ here!" Raul screamed as Reid regained his footing and started to run. "Do you hear me, _puto?!_ Come back here!"

Reid continued to run, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer on a flimsy pressboard door. He tripped over his own feet, stumbling a little before crashing back onto the white sand. The cold ocean waves lapped a little at his flesh, and a shiver ran up Reid's spine from the frigid water. Strong hands grabbed Reid's shoulders, working their way up to his throat.

"Thought you'd run, eh?" Raul chortled. "That work out for you?"

The struggling captive coughed and wriggled as much as he could, fighting for both oxygen and his freedom. "Please, you're hurting me…"

"Really? _Bueno. _See for yourself how it feels." Raul's face broke into a malicious grin as Reid continued to struggle for air.

"No," he wheezed. "Don't do this…"

"You belong to me, _querido,_" Raul said flatly. "If I want to kill you, so be it."

Reid fought to get his hands close to his attacker, and he pushed Raul away from him with all his might. The effort he exerted didn't gain him any ground, but he was trying.

"How does it feel, _puto?!" _Raul cried.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and the older man stopped moving. A slack look washed over his face, and he fell forward on top of Reid, nearly suffocating the young agent with his crushing weight. The spray of brain matter and blood splattered across Reid's face, causing him to quickly splutter and close his eyes, trying to move his hands to wipe the crimson liquid off of himself.

"Please, don't," Reid called out, his lungs limited from the near suffocation and the weight of Raul's corpse on top of him. "Don't shoot…!"

"Bastard," a voice called out, clear and full of venom. Reid blinked in surprise as he realized who the voice belonged to.


	45. This Is It

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"_Stupid_ bastard," a second voice said, and this one was new to Reid's ears. "I'll take care of this—you go on," the new voice said. "Where are they, Mike?"

"Second floor, end of the hall. Your girl's already up there. How'd you…?"

"Docked here, gave us more time to regroup." Reid shrunk underneath Raul's lifeless corpse, bitterly realizing the irony of the man's dead flesh covering up his own exposed frame. The sounds of feet sinking and crunching in the sand sailed through the profiler's ears, and he heard a small squabble between two of the voices, one of them very familiar.

"I'll take care of him."

"No, you won't. I'd follow your boss, if I were you."

"We can't leave him there…"

"We're not. But there's two others to think about, and God knows how many 'pieces' this guy plans to sell off tonight! They all need our help too!"

"You don't…"

"I understand, son. Now, go!" The second voice was a bit older, and Reid tried to get a look at who was speaking. He saw what looked like the back of Morgan's head—_could it really be Morgan? _he wondered in awe—as well as several other human-like shapes walking into the thick foliage that skirted the beach.

"You all right?" the older voice said, drawing closer.

"Wh-who are you?" Reid whispered.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. Are you all right?"

The younger man blinked in confusion. "The…the Navy police? But…"

"Here," Gibbs said, placing a hand on the shoulder of Raul's corpse. "This might help."

"No…don't…" Reid said haltingly, his face starting to blush a little.

"Something wrong, son?"

"I'm…I'm not decent."

"Oh." The older man stepped back a minute, and Reid could hear his feet spinning in circles in the dry, loose sand. As soon as they arrived, the feet started to step away. A moment later they returned. "Here," the naval agent said, his voice gruff but kind. "Toss these on." Reid noticed that Agent Gibbs was holding Raul's discarded shorts in his hand.

"O-okay," Reid said, taking the article of clothing from the man's hand. Mustering what little bit of strength he had left, the young man pushed the corpse of his attacker off of him, and as Reid slid the dead man's shorts onto his skinny frame he was grateful that Agent Gibbs was staring out at the ocean and not at him. "All right," he said weakly, his voice thin and hoarse from his earlier cries and abuse.

"Little big, but they'll do. Now, what can they expect up there, doctor?"

"You…you know who I am?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid, or at least that what your friends tell me." Reid noticed the older man was a bit like Hotch in that he was no-nonsense, but he wasn't above a joke or a bit of levity to try and calm a situation. _I could use a laugh right about now,_ he thought with a small smile.

"There's a-about twenty 'guests' up there, plus I don't know how many more victims this guy plans to 'sell' tonight. They just said it was a 'big shipment'," Reid said, his voice faltering a little. "Those people…"

"One of 'em a woman, black hair, Israeli accent?"

"Might have been…she had black hair, but I'm not good with accents."

"That's Ziva. She's one of mine. The other guy your friend Davis vouches for."

"Chase? Sh-she's here?"

"Why I'm back here," the naval agent replied, standing close to Reid but not invading his space. "There's enough gun hands in the batch as it is, and I know that girl's not going to be happy 'til she finds her 'boy'."

"Sh-she's pretty protective."

"She would've made a hell of a Marine."

"You speak from experience."

"That wasn't a question, was it?"

Reid smiled a little. "No, sir."

"Can't say I understand that talent of yours."

"It's just observation of human behavior, nothing more. For example, I know you'd like to be in there helping out, but you know someone has to stay in the back to afford the escape route."

"Yep." Gibbs turned on his heel and started towards what looked like a large pontoon boat that had been hastily 'anchored' not twelve feet from shore. "You any good with a boat?"

Reid chuckled a little. "I'm from Nevada."

"Then let's hope it was from Lake Mead." The older man led Reid out to the boat, carefully stepping on the higher sandbars that were helping to 'anchor' the boat. "Hop up," Gibbs said, and Reid searched for the 'rungs' that were built into the side of the metal floating structure, climbing them like a rope ladder.

"Now what?" Reid asked, starting to feel the anxiousness of waiting himself.

"We wait."

"Wait?"

"Yep. Wait, and watch. Something tells me we're going to see a show before we're done."

His exhaustion setting in, Reid sat on the deck of the wide boat and waited, his eyes beginning to droop. He never saw the small contented smile on Agent Gibbs's face when he finally fell fast asleep.

----

"This way," Michael said, pointing towards the grand estate. "Last window on the left. Your people're there."

"Then we'll join them, hmm?" Chase said, her prized 'Hector' locked and loaded. "Em, Fi, care to join me?"

"Pleasure," Fiona said, holding one of the AK's in her grip. "Might do some baking while I'm there." Emily merely nodded, looking as serous as ever.

"Don't get nuts, Fi. We've still gotta get out of here." Michael paused a moment. "_All _of us."

"How many 'pieces'?" Hotch asked.

"At least twenty-five, maybe more. They're 'prepping' them as we speak."

"Where?"

"Barn. There's a cellar there that they're using to 'store' them until they're shown. Two ways in, and both not the most optimal. One's a trapdoor in the middle of the 'showroom floor' and the other's a large 'receiving door' on the south end of the building. I say that the receiving door's the best bet, but you'd better make the shots count. I can cover the trapdoor—makes sense, since I'm supposed to be there anyway."

Hotch took in a deep breath, then nodded to his colleagues. "Let's go."

"Wait," Chase said. "What's the in on the estate?"

"There's a 'receiving room' on the left. Patio door."

"Got it." The teams split up, their individual missions now crystal clear. As the ladies set off, McGee whispered something to Rossi.

"Shouldn't one of us go in to..." the young naval agent wondered.

"Son, considering Chase's skill and that Fiona's, not to mention your girl Ziva..."

McGee smiled a small smile. "You're probably right."

"Besides, the larger job's here," Hotch added, having listened in on the quiet conversation. "About a hundred yards, then on my count..."


	46. Savin' Me

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

A sharp intake from the _puta_ startled Guillermo, forcing his eyelids open and his brain to wake. He'd been dozing the last few hours, mostly because the _jefe's_ 'merchandise' was in no condition to try and escape. Manuel had kept the male one up by poking him awake at intervals—'to make sure he's still breathing and coherent,' the lead guard had said—but Guillermo had seen what the _puto estupido_ had looked like after he'd been struck in the head the day before. _No fight left in that one,_ the younger guard thought.

The girl, on the other hand, was spirited. Twice now she'd tried to spy on the _jefe's_ guests, and when that _senora_ had mistaken the room for her own, the _puta_ had started to cry out for help. Only Guillermo's quick hand being roughly shoved in front of her mouth had stopped that from happening.

"Not a sound, _puta,_" he'd hissed. "Or else."

The child immediately fell silent, but her eyes—those wide, dark eyes like polished black pebbles—still begged for someone to come and assist her. A sharp sob escaped her throat, and the note hung in the air for a moment, falling finally like a shower of rain. The _senora _finally was 'convinced' away, and the door closed and locked once more. Only after that did Guillermo remove his hand from the girl's lips, and he relished the sound of the child's heart breaking, huge sobs wracking her small frame.

"No one will come to save you, _puta_," Manuel said evenly, as though merely stating a fact. "Your place is here, now."

"No," the girl sobbed, now frantic. She leaped off of the bed and tried to run, completely forgetting the fact that she was chained to the solid metal frame. The guards chuckled a little when Cassie fell flat on her face, the chain around her ankle pulled as taut as it would pull.

"Running will get you nowhere, _puta,_" Guillermo chortled. He roughly grabbed Cassie by the hair and pulled her onto her feet, drinking in the sounds of her sharp cries as she twisted to try and get away. Running a hand against the girl's arms and shoulders, he took note of her soft, delicate skin and her tiny features. "Perhaps you'd like some fun with me, hmm?" he whispered, a little too loudly.

"No!" Cassie cried, pulling as hard as she could to try and escape this horrible man's clutches.

"C-Cassie?" Oliver mumbled from the next bed, his headache making him disoriented and fuzzy. "Cassie, you all right?"

"Oliver, help!" the girl cried. "Please, he's hurting me!"

"L-leave her alone!" Oliver yelled, though his 'yell' was more like a stern rebuke. It hurt to yell too much. Slowly the man picked himself up from the too-hot sheets and tried to set himself upright, but the overwhelming pain in his head made even sitting up straight difficult at best. "She's just a little girl, you bastard!"

"_Perturbador_, is what she is," Guillermo snapped. "She'd do well to be broken by someone skilled…"

Cassie screamed, realizing what the man was talking about. She began to pull harder, feeling her hair start to come out in small clumps as she tried to tug herself free from her immediate captor's grip.

"Guillermo! Enough!" Manuel said, leveling his rifle at the man. "You saw what happened to Jose, no?"

"Yeah, but…"

"What do you think would happen if you 'broke' the girl first? Before the _jefe_?"

The room fell silent as Guillermo brooded on that point. "Damn," he said, his anger and frustration boiling. "Get back to bed," he snapped, nearly throwing Cassie back onto the soft mattress. "And sleep, or else!"

"Please, just…just leave us alone," Oliver pleaded, holding his head. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his face wasn't bleeding anymore, but the pounding of his head was enough to make him consider cutting the whole thing off.

"_You,_ shut up," Guillermo barked. "You want to hurt more?"

"Touch him and I'll have to shoot you myself, _hibrido,_" Manuel warned, cocking his rifle. "_Jefe_ wants him _alive._"

"Then why are we here?" the younger man cried. "We can't 'break' them, we can't 'discipline' them—why are we here?"

"Because they might try to escape. That—and that alone—we can prevent. Doesn't take much, and they'll heal from 'preventative measures'."

Guillermo slunk back to his post by the closet door, fuming. Manuel returned to his post near the bathroom.

Oliver laid back down, mentally berating himself for not being in better shape to help Cassie or himself. _Reid's been gone a long time,_ he realized suddenly, snapping his head up and groaning as he paid the price for it.

"O-Oliver?" Cassie asked timidly. "Are…are you all right?"

"Wh-where's Reid?" he asked. When no one answered, he repeated, "M-my friend?"

"Working, _puto,_" Guillermo said flatly, the smile creeping into his voice. "Just like you will be, very soon."

Oliver laid his head back down on the stained pillow it occupied, his eyes just about to fall back to sleep when his ears picked up the report of a bullet shot through a silencer. To his right, he heard a door creak open slightly, and Manuel's feet hitting the floor.

"Who's there?" he called out, aiming his rifle. _"¿Quién está allí?"_

The front door creaked in reply, a bright light washing over a sliver of the parquet flooring. Manuel pointed the rifle directly at Cassie's head, his grip on the weapon firm. "Show yourself, or she dies," he threatened.

"I like Option B," a voice said, and another silent shot fired, the bullet severing Manuel's thumb and trigger finger from the rest of his hand. Another shot fired, and the man went down like a house of cards.

"Finally," a second voice said. "Fi, you take too long."

"Hey," the woman—Fi, apparently—replied in a huff. "Don't rush art."

"Ollie?" another voice said, coming towards Oliver's barely conscious frame. "Jesus, Ollie, what'd you do _this_ time?"

"He…he was trying to help me," Cassie ventured, keeping herself curled up and her voice small. Though the armed intruders were all women, Cassie feared what they might do to her now that they had her.

"You're Cassie?" a third voice said, coming closer to her. Cassie nodded, still trying to shy away from the women in the room. "It's okay, Cassie," the woman said. "My name is Emily. We're here to take you home."

"H-Home? My home?"

"Yes, honey. Come on, now."

"Um…" Cassie said, picking up her chained leg. "We're both like that," she explained, and the second woman—the one taking care of Oliver—noticed the chains around his legs.

"Overkill," the second woman said, pulling out something Cassie couldn't make out. "Hold still, Cassie," she said, and the soft _ping_ she'd heard before rang out again, this time severing the metal chain in two. "Not the best, but it'll work. Ziva, Fi, a hand please?"

Cassie watched as the two women pulled out their own weapons and did the same with Oliver's shackles. His friend then gently lifted him up and tried to set him upright.

"Ollie, wake up. Come on, Oliver…"

"Can't be," he mumbled, his eyes starting to open. "Chasie? That you?"

"Well, it ain't Mighty Mouse," she joked. "Come on. We're blowing this popsicle stand."

"You…you know him?" Cassie asked.

"Oh, yes, honey," the woman named Chase replied as she covered Oliver with something. "He's family."

"Come on, Cassie," Emily said, draping a robe of some sort over the girl's scantily clad frame. "We're moving," she said again, as though to a ghost.

"Ollie, you've got to…damn," Chase whispered, trying to keep Oliver from falling over his own feet. "Concussion?"

"Mmm-hmm," the investigator murmured. "Bad too. Can't stand up straight."

Ziva came over and grabbed his other arm. "Fi, if it moves and you don't recognize it…" Chase hissed, steadying Oliver.

"My pleasure," the small woman replied as the 'party' broke out into the warm bath of the hallway light.


	47. Blaze of Glory

**Usual disclaimers. Still a few chaps left to go...

* * *

**

Hotch's fingers gave the count. _Three…two…_

Rossi pulled the receiving door open, and Morgan and McGee took point. The small party made their way down what looked like a dark labyrinth of small 'rooms' that held unsuspecting prisoners in each one. The sounds of terrified voices pleading for release began to startle McGee, and his eyes shifted slightly towards one of them. Behind him, Hotch poked the younger man in the side and glared his patented stare at him. The young naval agent caught the implication at once.

"You two start working on the doors," Hotch whispered, pointing at Sam and Rossi. "Agent McGee, keep a lookout."

"And you?" Rossi asked.

"Going upstairs," Hotch replied quietly. "If Esai Cormier was right, there should be more being 'sold off' as we speak. Michael's going to have to cover us."

Each member of the party took a hard look. Then they set off on their assignments.

----

"Ollie, you have to help us out here," Chase admonished her partner. I can't carry you!"

"I can't see straight, Chase!" Oliver cried, almost too loudly. "God, I want to down a bottle of aspirin…"

Several feet ahead, Fiona expertly swept the long hallway with the point of her rifle, as though she were looking for hidden enemies in combat. The report of footsteps coming up the stairs made her raise her hand in warning, and a second later the 'rescue party' could hear voices floating past the banister.

"…made some excellent choices, haven't we?" one voice said, a deep male variety.

"Oh, yes," another replied, this one high, screechy and female. "Just in time, too—after that horrific display at dinner…"

"What now?!" Emily mouthed, clutching Cassie as though the little girl's life depended on it.

Chase leaned Oliver against the wall, using Ziva to help steady him. "Hold still, Ollie," the younger woman said. Turning to Ziva and Fiona, she stepped out in front of the 'couple' ascending the stairs and said, "Good evening…"

"Hey, who are you?!"

"Oh, me? Just here to collect my 'merchandise'."

The woman stared at Chase's 'Hector.' "With a gun?"

A chortle escaped Chase's lips. "Oh, yeah. This guy Luna, he's stiffed me before."

"I…I don't understand," the man said, trying to look dapper in his three-piece suit and bow tie. "He's _cheated _you?"

"Hell, yes," Chase said, as though she dealt in the bartering of human life as a profession. "I mean, look at this one here," she added, beckoning them closer to where Oliver was leaning heavily against the wall. "Paid two hundred thousand for that one, and he can barely stand up."

"My God," the woman cried. "There was another one earlier…fell over like a house of cards…"

"Can't refund the kid, so I make do," Chase told them. "But if I were you, I'd sincerely think twice about 'buying' more stuff from this guy."

"Robert," the woman said, a note of worry creeping into her voice. "I think we should pack up and leave."

"Without taking our merchandise?!"

"Look at this one. He's useless!"

The man—Robert—marched up to where Oliver stood. "You," he snapped. "The hell's wrong with you?"

"This," Fiona said, cracking the man hard against the back of the head with her AK. The woman shrieked, and Ziva silenced her with a shot to the head.

"Damn," Chase said, quickly picking up Oliver from the wall where he leaned heavily. "Gotta move, ladies…"

"What the hell was that?" Ziva demanded.

"_That_ was me trying to get us out of here _quietly_," Chase shot back. "Fi!"

"We weren't going anywhere, and certainly not fast," Fi argued. The small party made its way down the steps and past the 'receiving room,' where they saw dozens of young men and women running past them as though their lives depended on it.

"My God," Emily said under her breath when she finally got a good look at one of them. Every one of the fleeing victims had been stripped naked, and many of them still had their hands bound behind them. "Come on!" she called out, both in Spanish and in English. "This way!"

A few of the faces heard her call out, and when they saw the injured Oliver and the bright face of Cassie also beckoning them, they turned and ran with the fleeing party.

"Take him," Chase said, handing Oliver off to Fiona.

"What?!"

"I've got business in that barn, Fi," Chase said. "And I'd trust you with my life, so I'm trusting you with his. Catch me?"

Fiona glared at the younger woman a moment and then nodded once. "Fine," she said, nestling her small frame underneath Oliver's left arm. "But save some for the rest of us!"

"I've got other plans for him," Chase promised. "And I promise, they won't be pleasant…"

----

"_Jefe! Jefe!"_ Marco screamed as he saw the 'merchandise' fleeing from their cells. "They're escaping!"

"Jesus Christ," 'Remington' called out from his seat in the back. He pointed a long finger out towards the open barn door, and the other guests were treated to the sight of naked men and woman fleeing from their 'prison' as fast as they could. "Is this the 'merchandise' you wanted to sell us?!"

"Go! _Vamanos!"_ Darius screamed to his employees, who were already taking up arms. "Get down there and find out what the hell is going on!" he hissed to Marco, who was already looking pale.

"_Si, jefe_," the man replied, scurrying off. Darius then looked to his guests, some of whom were in hot tempers and black moods. "This is just a misunderstanding, _amigos,_" he tried to brush off. "They cannot run far…"

The report of a gunshot beneath them, however, spoke volumes. The frightened 'guests' started to run for it as well, heading towards the docks and their waiting boats.

"Wait! Come back!" Darius cried, pointing at two remaining guards in his employ. "Stop them!"

The guards moved to stop the panicked guests, but to no avail. "Get your hands off me," one man snapped as he punched a guard in the face. "I'm getting out of here!"

"No, no, please…come back!" Darius shouted, but his voice was drowned out over the sounds of motors turning over and propellers churning water. As his 'customers' took off, Darius sank to his knees on the docks, staring at his lost investment.

"_Jefe,"_ a voice said, panting heavily. "It was a trap…they…" The report of a bullet silenced him, and Darius quickly stood up and turned around.

"Nice operation you got here," 'Remington' said evenly. "But I think it's time to call it a night."

"You," Darius snapped. "_You?!"_

"Oh, he had help," another voice said, and a stern looking older man came forth, pointing a well-kept handgun towards Darius's midsection. Soon a small group of men surrounded him, all looking very cross. One of the men looked as though he would like to kill him right where he stood, and the thought frightened Darius a little."

"What do you want?" he asked, hoping some sort of 'arrangement' could be made to appease these men. "I can pay…"

"Oh, and you have," a young man replied, his voice clipped. "Right about now your offshore accounts are being cleaned out as we speak."

"You lie."

"Price of doing business," 'Remington' replied, a lazy smile creeping over his face. "Plus we're taking your people…or should I say, _her_ people?"

"_Her?_ Please, _Senors,_ I do not understand…"

A bullet fired, and soon Darius was screaming in pain. "The hell?" an older man asked, his bright eyes glaring at a man who looked like stone.

"I missed."

"Damn, Hotch…"

"You stole innocent people from us," the stone man said evenly, and his voice left no room for argument.

"Innocent no longer, _puta_," Darius spat. "Oh, they're 'well-trained' pieces now…"

Another shot went off, and Darius cried out in pain as hot metal embedded itself into his posterior region. "They're ours, now."

"Like hell. You cannot escape this place…"

"Oh, yes, they can, asshole," a voice sang out, this one belonging to a female. Two of the men turned slightly to admit the woman, a face Darius remembered well. "You stole my boys," she snapped, shooting off a small hail of bullets. "I took yours," Five seconds later, the grand estate house went up in a fireball, with debris and soot blanketing the area like a strange rainstorm. "Now, we're even."

"My house," Darius said, his eyes wide with shock. "You _bitch!"_

A shot rang out, and soon Darius's arm flamed in agony. "Didn't anyone teach you manners?" a scruffy older man clucked, shaking his head.

"Now I have my boys back, and your capital, and now this. I'd say that covers it, fellows."

"Well, shouldn't we just kill him?" the youngest of the group asked, his face twitching in wonder. Several pairs of eyes looked at him in disbelief. "I mean, what's the point of leaving him here? He'll just try again…"

The woman—Chase Davis—shook her head. "Trust me," she said quietly. "He won't. He's a coward."

"You lie!" Darius screamed, trying desperately to pick himself up from the spot where he'd collapsed. His legs were on fire, and his backside was screaming, and now his arm...

"Nope. His employees are now dead, or rounded up, and he's got nothing left. I expect a repeat of history here, fellows."

Another shot rang out, and this one connected with Darius's knee. "For Reid," the black man said simply. Another shot fired, this one taking out the other knee. "And for Oliver."

"And the last one belongs to me," Chase said, leveling her weapon and firing at Darius's right shoulder. "No worries, Hotch—he'll live. For a minute or two, anyway."

"Come on, people," 'Remington' said. "Bus's leaving…"

The small party made their way into a run as they headed towards the thick treeline that hid a secluded beach. Darius lay in a heap where he fell, bleeding from his many wounds. The fire raged on, feeding on his expensive carpets and fixtures and carefully planned walls. Dragging himself closer, he gritted his teeth as he finally got close enough to let the fire consume him.

On the beach, Morgan sidled up to Chase. "You think he really did that?"

"I know so," Chase said. "If you can't win, die in a blaze of glory. At least, that seems to be the family motto around here." The teams reunited with their 'lost boys' as well as the lieutenant's daughter, and found they had quite a 'shipment' to bring back to Miami.

"What are we going to do with them?" Rossi wondered.

"I know of a police lieutenant in the city," Chase said. "Reputation only, but it's said he's fair and willing to help. I'll have Kyle give him a call once we land. His boys and girls will have a lot of clean-up, and we need to get Reid and Oliver out of the picture as fast as possible."

"No statements, huh?"

"What we just did, never happened," Chase insisted. "For everyone's sake."

"Gotcha," the older man replied, willing to keep this secret to spare his colleagues. _They've been through enough,_ he reasoned.


	48. Breakdown

**Expect more aftermath in the next few chapters--Reid and Oliver are far from out of the woods yet. Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Oliver shivered. The act of his teeth banging together in his head made the injured part of his makeup pound even more. His eyes flew open, and the blinding white light made him wince in pain and start to wonder.

"Am I dead?" he murmured, unable to tell if he was alone. Nothing made sense in his current state—he knew that he'd been asleep in that room, and then…it was almost like a dream. For a moment, Oliver could have sworn he heard Chase's voice telling him to move, and that everything would be all right. The investigator blinked a little, hoping to clear the persistent fog that had lingered since that guard had struck him in the face. Reaching up towards his face, he felt something gauzy wrapped around the gaping wound in his head.

The room was still much too bright. A chill crawled up Oliver's shoulders, and he tried to hug himself to stay warm. As he curled his arms in towards his chest, he noticed that they were covered with something soft. _They gave me a blanket? Impossible… _Yet the thick fabric lay overtop of him, and Oliver could just make out that it was blue.

"Am I dead?" he asked again, hoping to get some kind of answer. There was a slight tapping of footsteps that echoed from somewhere, but Oliver couldn't tell where they were coming from. Then he heard it—snatches of conversation from somewhere he couldn't see.

"Honestly, Miss Davis," a rather loud voice said, tinged with what Oliver thought was some kind of British accent; Welsh, perhaps, or maybe Scottish. "I have barely finished the little one…"

"Look," a more familiar voice said quietly, trying hard not to be heard. "I'm not trying to be difficult, doctor…"

"Ducky," the British voice said. _So he's a doctor? _Oliver pondered that a minute as he remembered the last 'doctor' who looked him over.

"Okay, Ducky," the familiar voice said again. "But…"

"Once he wakes up, we'll know. Until then, go."

Oliver heard the sound of footsteps trailing off, and a door hinge creaked, sending a splitting pain through the man's sensitive head.

"I must say, I've never seen anyone more determined," the British voice said again—_Ducky_, Oliver realized. "Your friends are quite adamant that you return to the living, Mr. Lawrence…"

Bright eyes blinked open slightly. "Am I dead?" he asked, wondering if this was his guide to the pearly gates.

"Quite the contrary, my dear boy," the man standing next to him said, and Oliver focused on the spectacles he wore—black wire-rimmed, oval shaped. "Despite from that nasty blow to the head, I think you should make a full recovery." The mirth in the man's voice was infectious, and even Oliver managed a smile.

"Wh-where am I?"

"Ah, well, _that_ I cannot positively say for certain, though I do believe we are somewhere outside of Miami."

"Florida?"

"Well, I daresay we're not in Ohio—much too warm for the Great Lakes region this time of year…did you know that aside from the metropolis of Miami, there are at least ten _other_ areas claiming the same name as the Native American tribe, and four of them are outside the United States?"

Oliver smiled. "No. Can't say I did. But then, I'm from Michigan—we tend to use our hands as maps."

"How interesting!" the little man said, his good humor and cheerful demeanor washing over the entire space the two men occupied. "The only other place to do that is Italy…"

"Yeah. The boot." Oliver started to lift his hands towards his eyes to rub them clear, but a hand on his arm stopped him. "Oh, no. Your eyes will clear fairly soon. You've suffered a rather nasty concussion, a third degree one at least."

The room started to come into focus, and Oliver realized he was sitting on a long metal desk that was doubling as an operating table. The doctor was sitting nearby in a padded folding chair, and on the end of the desk laid a large black bag.

"You're really a doctor?" Oliver asked.

"Medical Examiner, to be more precise," the man said. "But on occasion I do take a live patient or two." Oliver looked up to see an impish grin crossing the older man's face.

"What's your name?"

"Oh. Where are my manners?" The doctor extended a hand and said, "Dr. Donald Mallard, though most call me Ducky."

Oliver chuckled. "Oliver Lawrence. Though I have a feeling you already knew that."

"Oh, yes—your friends are very vocal, whether they voice their concerns or use 'other' methods."

"You've met Kyle, I see."

"Determined fellow, Mr. Parker. Without him, I daresay you and your friend might have been lost."

Oliver thought back to that night in the office in Virginia. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "For a while, I thought we were."

"I am rather amazed that there wasn't any more damage to you," Ducky said, now growing serious. "You've got severe bruising, especially around the wrists and ankles, and there's what looks to be ligature marks around the neck…"

The younger man shied away from the gentle hands that were trying to get a closer look. "Yeah," he said softly. "Bastard tried to kill me."

"And yet he did not succeed."

"I…I don't think me actually _dying_ was ever part of the plan," Oliver said slowly. Pointing to his neck, he said, "This? This was because I tried not to let them take Reid after he'd been 'sold.' Had to stand balanced on my tiptoes all night, because moving would have caused the noose to hang me, and literally."

"Dear God," the physician said, his head turning up to meet Oliver's gaze.

"And they loved their handcuffs," Oliver told him. "I don't think I want to see a pair again."

Ducky continued to 'examine' his patient, though he was decidedly more gentle and attentive to Oliver's feelings on the matter than his previous one. "Still, the blow to the face…if the plan was not to kill you, then…"

"One of the 'employees' got mad when I tried to plead for help. I, um, compared his sister to the… 'station' that I held in that place."

"You were a prisoner?"

"No. I was an _esclavo--"_

"A slave." The doctor's eyes grew cold, and Oliver knew that the anger welling in them was not directed at him. "Good God."

"Yeah," Oliver said softly. "He, ah, wanted me to shut up, and when I didn't he hit me in the face with the back of a rifle."

"You're lucky he didn't kill you, Oliver," Ducky said seriously. Oliver smiled a little as the Britisher said his name—it sounded a little like Josh's usual '_Oh-lee-vair', _though the accent was on the 'air' part of the name only. The older man reached into his bag for something, and Oliver unwillingly flinched a little, expecting the worst.

"I don't know why I did that," the younger man said simply. "I mean…"

"Your conscious mind is telling you that I am not a threat, and yet your unconscious mind is still working on the framework you had to create to survive," Ducky explained.

"You sound like a profiler," Oliver said, a smile creeping back onto his face. "I should know."

"Yes, your friends from the FBI are very talented indeed. I myself am a mere student of the profession, but a rather vigorous one." Oliver shivered as a cold stethoscope was placed onto his chest, and he winced a little when Ducky's hands hit a sore spot along his rib cage and tried to shy away from the touch. "Bruised, but not broken," he said. "Though I'm not sure it won't if you're not careful."

"No, it's not that," Oliver said, still trying to shy away from Ducky's hands along his chest.

"Are you holding back from the pain?"

"N-no," Oliver stammered. The memory of Reid's hands being forced to crawl over his nude frame still weighed prominently on Oliver's mind. "It's…it's your hands…"

"Too cold? I daresay, this room is a lot warmer than my usual surroundings…"

"No, it's not that…"

"Then what, Mr. Lawrence?"

"Oliver. Please, call me Oliver." The investigator had begun to shake as though being attacked by a personal earthquake.

"Oliver, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's nothing you're doing…" The memories of abuse flooded back in one giant wave, and soon Ducky watched as this nearly broken individual collapsed onto the top of the desk in tears, not bothering to hide his huge, wracking sobs. "Why?!" the doctor heard the younger man cry out as though his sanity depended on it. "Why did this happen to me?!"

For once in his life, Ducky had nothing to say. He knew without a doubt he would have to try and get the young man to come forward with the events of his captivity if Oliver was going to come through this intact. He watched as his patient cried himself nearly out, which given his recently dehydrated state wasn't the best course for treatment. IV fluids had been administered to Oliver earlier, when the younger man had been passed out from the concussion and the exhaustion.

As soon as Oliver grew quiet, Ducky pulled a chair over to the young man and sat down. "Oliver," he said. "I'm going to have to know what happened on that island if I'm going to be able to help you properly. Now, I know that talking about it isn't likely what you wanted to do, but…"

"Y-you won't tell anyone?"

Ducky shook his head. "Doctor-patient privilege. I am licensed as a medical doctor and a pathologist, after all."

Gingerly, Oliver sat himself up onto the desk. Heaving a deep breath, he began to speak.


	49. The Words Unspoken

**Usual disclaimers, plus Lieutenant Caine comes courtesy of the folks behind CSI: Miami.** **Hope you enjoy**.

* * *

"Mama! Papa!"

"Oh, _mi angel_!" Celia Aroyo cried, collecting her daughter up in a fierce hug. "Cassie, are you…?"

"She's just fine, ma'am," Sam said as he watched the scene unfold. Chase Davis was there too, trying to keep her emotions in check as the lieutenant and his family welcomed their lost one home. "Doctor gave her a clean bill of health."

"Chasie," Jorge Aroyo said. "_Gracias. Muy gracias."_

"_De nada," _Chase said, one of a handful of Spanish phrases she actually knew.

Cassie broke from her mother's grip a second, looking at Chase. "How is he?"

"He?"

"Oliver…how is he? They…they hit him really hard…"

"The doctor's looking in on him now," Chase promised.

"I can't believe…you found her," Lt. Aroyo said, now holding his daughter in own hug. The sailor's voice belied his happy disbelief.

"What we do, sir." Chase smiled as Mrs. Aroyo took Cassie back to the waiting car. "What we do."

"And the animals who took her…" the lieutenant asked.

"Aren't coming back," Sam promised. "Ever."

The four held a minute of knowing silence, then the Aroyo's nodded in an understanding acceptance. "She might have some nightmares for a while, sir," Chase said. "Way she explained it, the men who held her only touched her—nothing else. The doctor suggested perhaps some counseling, but other than a little dehydration she's in perfect health."

"Sick bastards. I hope they got what they deserved." Jorge Aroyo's face was fuming at Chase's last statement, and it was obvious to both her and Sam that he would very much have liked to 'teach' the depraved individuals that had kidnapped his only granddaughter a 'lesson' himself.

"They did, sir. Miss Davis here saw to that." Sam wasn't above a good plug for his own efforts, but this time wisely sided with caution.

"I had help. Take care of her, Jorge, Lieutenant. She's a good girl."

"Thank you," the sailor said again. "Thank you so much…"

"Go, now. Cassie's going to need both of you if she's going to move past this." Chase gently beckoned the two men towards the waiting car where Cassie and her mother were waiting. "Good luck."

"And to you," Jorge Aroyo said as his son walked quickly towards the car. "And to you."

As the Aroyo's drove off, Chase's phone rang. "Chase Davis," she said, her voice all business.

"Miss Davis, my name is Lt. Caine from the Miami-Dade Police Department…"

"Ah. Yes. I've been expecting your call…" Chase put her hand over the mouthpiece and said to Sam, "Better take Mike and Fi and split, Sam. Cops are on their way, most like, and you all don't need the trouble."

"You got it. Hey, listen, thanks."

"For what?"

"I dunno. Helping Mike, I guess. Gave him something to think about other than that burn notice of his."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll be back." Chase smiled as she started to pick her hand up from the phone. "Now, go. I'll call you all later."

"Sure thing. Hey, Mike, Fi…" Sam called out, heading back in side the large warehouse that Kyle had 'rented out' as a place to work for a bit.

"Lieutenant? I'm so sorry…are you still there?"

"Yes," the voice on the end of her phone said simply. "Miss Davis, I'm being led to understand you might have some information on a group of people who claim to have been 'rescued' recently…something about a slave-trading ring?"

"Oh. Yeah." Chase sighed. "Lieutenant, are you adverse to a private meeting?"

"Adverse? Hardly. Where?"

"South Marina, near the Everglades?"

"Remote spot."

"I've been having insect problems. You understand."

"One hour?"

"Done." Chase closed up her phone and went inside to prepare.

----

The tall grass and the smell of the salt water hung heavily in the thick humid air as Chase waited on her 'appointment.' She'd made sure to be early—_don't need any more people in on this operation than we got,_ she thought as she saw an unmarked car pull into the lonely gravel cul-de-sac. "Lieutenant Caine," she said, not bothering to get up from her seat on the shaded bench that she occupied.

"Miss Davis."

"Have a seat?"

"Thank you." One settled, the redheaded man began to speak. "Miss Davis, it seems rather odd to me that you name keeps coming up in certain 'interviews' we're having from a number of people…"

"It might," Chase replied. "You mentioned a slave-trading operation."

"I did. Several of these individuals tell me they were lured into the operation to become 'merchandise'."

Chase nodded her head a bit. "What you hear is true. There was such an operation, not three miles from Key West. Many of the victims are residents of Little Havana and surrounding parts of Miami proper."

"It also seems odd that most of these individuals are illegals," the lieutenant said, as though he were carrying on a conversation in code.

"Not as odd as you might think."

"I see."

"What happens now to them?" the younger woman asked.

"That is up to INS," the redheaded man drawled, taking off his sunglasses to reveal a pair of blue eyes that rivaled Oliver's. "Though I imagine a good word will be put in for them."

"That's a relief."

"What I'd like to know is whether or not we've got a problem," the man asked, his voice belying nothing.

"What sort of 'problem'?"

"Can I expect more?"

Chase heaved a large sigh of relief. "No, lieutenant. I wouldn't worry."

"I see."

The trained investigator sized up the man, whom she knew only by reputation. She wasn't sure she could trust him. "What do you see?"

"I see someone who's trying to help her own. And, as far as I'm concerned, is doing just fine."

"That obvious?"

"The call I got earlier today was a relay through a sign interpreter. Word gets around of a certain investigative group working out of Virginia, and I did a little research."

"And?"

"No reason not to place a little courteous faith in a fellow colleague."

Chase smiled softly. "Nope. No reason not to." She stood up and began walking towards the large SUV she'd borrowed from Hotch, and then turned towards the man with the dark sunglasses. "I wouldn't worry about the cleanup, Lieutenant. International waters and all."

"What cleanup?"

Chase returned the man's thoughtful gaze. "Precisely."


	50. The Secrets That You Keep

**And we're back to the angst. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**

Reid woke to the sound of footsteps. _Oh, no, _he thought, his mind not yet fully awake. _Not again…_

However, once he managed to open his eyes, he noticed that his surroundings were quite different than the ones Raul had kept him in. The room was made of cinder-block, painted a chalky yellow color, and the lights within it were all working at full capacity. The odd assortment of chairs and various tables were stacked neatly against some of the walls, and he found he was laying on one of the metal tables as though it were a bed. A shiver crawled up his spine, but it was tempered a bit due to the thick blanket that someone had put overtop of him. Reid clutched the deep green fabric and pulled it tighter around his bare frame.

"Your people are out getting some clothes," a voice said, startling Reid from his trance-like state.

"Hu-what?"

"Clothes. They should be back any minute." Reid vaguely recognized the voice—it was the same man that had helped him on the beach. He tried to remember the name, but that piece of information was not forthcoming.

"You're the…"

"Yep. I'm the." The man sat in one of the folding chairs, looking as though he were waiting on the world to come to him.

"Where's…"

"Your people are also busy 'cleaning up'," the man said. Reid now remembered that he was a naval agent of some sort, but couldn't quite place him. "That one guy, Morgan, he practically insisted he stay here with you, but your boss knew better, it seems."

Reid slowly began to sit up, his long fingers still clutching the thick blanket. "Is it that cold in here?" the graying man asked, the question not unkind but coming out almost as a bark.

"N-no," Reid replied. "It's just…I…"

"Uh-huh." Something about the man's face told Reid that he understood.

"I'm sorry," Reid said. "I forgot your name."

"Gibbs," the man replied. "Agent Gibbs, NCIS."

"The Navy police," Reid said, realizing why he'd seemed familiar. "It's a little odd, isn't it? Investigating a non-Navy case?"

"How do you know it's not?"

The younger man blinked at the question. "Well, I know neither Oliver nor I have anything to do with the Navy…"

"No. Doesn't mean someone else there didn't."

Reid let his head fall into his hands as he thought. The fog was lifting, but it was fighting tooth and nail to remain in place. "Cassie," he said finally, drawing out the word like an anchor line. "Her dad was a lieutenant, she said…"

"Yep. And your friend Parker dragged my people into this long before that," Agent Gibbs replied. "Gotta say, he's persistent."

"Who, Kyle?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, he can be," Reid acknowledged. Especially when it comes to people he cares about. Last time he nearly shot a suspect in North Dakota because he wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know."

"What did he want to know?"

"Where someone had taken his little brother. He'd been kidnapped, and the suspect was our only lead."

"Mmm."

Reid's head began to clear, and he noticed the thick metal door that loomed in front of him. "It's unlocked," Agent Gibbs said, flicking his gaze towards the brown barrier.

"I didn't…"

"You were."

"How long have I…?"

"Twelve hours. Give or take."

Just then the door opened, and a short bespectacled man walked in. "Ah, Jethro," the man said, his Scottish accent hard to miss. "And how is our patient?"

"Just woke up, Duck," Agent Gibbs replied. "He's all yours."

The sound of those words together made Reid's skin crawl. _They're not…_ he thought briefly, a tinge of worry creeping over his frame. The short man settled into the chair that Agent Gibbs had vacated, and the younger man had left, closing the door behind him.

"Who…who are you?" Reid asked, trying to put a little distance between himself and this strange person.

"It's all right, my boy—I am a doctor. Or rather, a Medical Examiner," the little man replied. "Dr. Donald Mallard, but you may call me 'Ducky'."

Reid still shied away. "It's all right," the doctor said, not unkindly. Heaving a deep breath, Reid slowly allowed the man to remove the thick blanket from his frame and let him take the once-over. Every time Ducky tried to touch him, he flinched.

"There's not a lot of bruising, though it's quite apparent you've been knocked around a bit," the little man said. "In that regard, you were quite fortunate."

A small snort escaped from Reid's nostrils. "Sometimes the worst bruises are the ones you can't see."

"Quite right." As Ducky began to check Reid's chest and rib cage for broken bones, he noticed the _look_ on the younger man's face—it was tight, pensive, as though he were waiting on the worst to happen. "I imagine your story is quite different than the one your friend Mr. Lawrence has to tell."

"You…you've seen Oliver?"

"Oh, yes. Nasty concussion, but he'll be fine after some time. Also a broken rib and that gash on his forehead…"

Reid shuddered a little as Ducky's hands ran across the younger man's back and the tips of his shoulder blades. "There doesn't seem to be anything broken," the man said finally, and the relief was palpable when the man stepped back from his 'patient's' frame. "But, I expect, that's not all that can break, now is it?"

"I'm…I'm sorry?"

"My dear doctor, you're shaking like a leaf and it's well over a hundred degrees in here," the little man said pointedly. "And like your friend, you seem to be wary of being touched."

Reid stared a moment. _Does he know?_

"Like I said, your friend Oliver has his own story," the doctor continued. "And, like him, I imagine you have yours."

_He wants me to tell him! _Reid realized. _No! I can't… _He bit his lips in frustration, his heart crying to pour itself out to someone, and yet feeling ashamed and embarrassed to breathe a word. Reid's hands flew up to his throat, where he noticed that the hateful 'collar' that had been locked around it was gone.

"Oh, that bugger," the doctor said as Reid's eyes asked the unspoken question. "That was beyond barbaric. Took industrial strength bolt cutters to cut that loose, and then we worried we'd wake you up while we did. It's a good thing you were so exhausted…" Reid watched as the little bespectacled man reached for something in his black bag, rifling through the container just as he himself would look through his messenger bag.

"Th-thank you," Reid said softly.

"Don't mention it. Bastards needed one on _their_ necks, I would imagine." Ducky pulled a flashlight from the bag and flipped the device on, pointing the lighted end at Reid's neck. "Hmm. There's some pronounced bruising around the throat, but it doesn't seem serious."

"He…he pulled on the 'leash'," Reid said quickly. "He wanted me to…"

"To what, doctor?"

"Nothing." Reid closed his eyes, hoping that the little man wouldn't press the issue further.

"Dr. Reid," Ducky said simply, his voice calm but firm. "I imagine in your profession you often worry that the darker side of the work will overcome you."

"What of it?"

"I'm just saying that, sometimes—just sometimes—it is better to release those emotions rather than lock them away." The man sat down finally in the chair, trying to make himself comfortable as possible.

"I'm…I'm finished?"

"The physical exam, yes. You were dehydrated and suffering from slight malnutrition, but aside from the bruises there's really nothing physically wrong. You were fortunate."

Reid's mind went back to that horrible bedroom, when he was forced to 'teach' Oliver a 'lesson.' It then flickered to the davenport where his 'secret' had been discovered, and then the bathroom…

"_Fortunate_ is not the word I'd use to describe it," Reid spat, wrapping the green blanket around him like a shield. "Oliver was luckier in that regard."

"A concussion and severe wounds to the face, and he was 'lucky'?"

Reid shivered. He could still feel Raul's hands crawling up and down his flesh, still hear the sound of his persistent voice calling him '_querido_'… "Like I said, some bruises are worse when you can't see them."

"The blood, on your face…"

"Blood?"

"Yes. It seems there was an 'incident' just before you were discovered…"

Reid's mind raced. The beach. The argument. Raul's decision to 'take him' by force. His breathing began to deepen, and before he knew it he was on his feet and pacing, the personification of a bull trying to control itself in a china shop. "That bastard," Reid spat angrily. "How _could _he?!"

"How could he what?"

"He tried to _rape_ me!" Reid nearly shouted, and before he knew it hot tears were falling down his cheeks. "He kept _touching_ me, kept _violating_ me, kept forcing me to submit to whatever sick desire he had planned for me to…" The last few words came out as a sob, and Ducky once again watched as an otherwise healthy young man poured his heart out onto the floor. After several minutes Reid picked his head up from his lap, having sunk to the ground and curled his knees towards his chest. "I can still feel him, touching me," the profiler whispered. "It's irrational, I know…he's dead, after all…"

"It's all right," the medical examiner said kindly, though not belittling the situation. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me? Perhaps lift a weight from your chest?"

Reid's eyes told just how badly he did, but his mind was apprehensive. "You…you won't tell them…?"

"As your friend learned earlier, I am a licensed physician. It would be unethical, and I am well-known for my adherence to ethics."

The younger man heaved a deep breath. "He…he wouldn't stop," Reid began.

"Who?"

"Raul. That was the man who 'bought' me. He…he wanted me to become his _querido_, which I think means 'lover'…"

Ducky nodded, silently urging the young man to continue.


	51. The Price of Admission

**Sorry for the long hiatus! Hope you enjoy this short installment!**

* * *

"The hell is going on in there?!" Morgan said, pacing worriedly in a large room near where the Navy's Medical Examiner was going about his work.

"Your friend's getting a checkup," Gibbs said, his frame practically laying in a large, plush office chair on wheels. "Why an office supply house?" he wondered half to himself. "There wasn't an old motel available?"

"Beats me." The sound of a muffled cry coming from the little room Reid had been put into made Morgan stop suddenly and start towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I am _not_ about to let him get hurt again…"

Gibbs rested his feet on the floor and sat straight in the chair. "What make you think he's being hurt?" he asked the pensive agent, his voice calm but firm.

"People don't scream for no good reason!"

"That's true." Gibbs settled back into the chair again as Morgan took two more steps towards the door. "But perhaps he's having to make some admissions he'd rather no one heard."

Morgan stopped. "Admissions?"

"How long you been a profiler, Agent Morgan?"

"Quite a while."

"You think maybe there's some things that happen to a person that can't be seen? That perhaps people _shouldn't_ see?"

The statement made Morgan stop for a moment. He remembered Garcia's evasiveness earlier and Hotch and Chase's reactions after seeing something relating to the case. He also remembered the 'talk' he'd had with Hotch, and for the briefest of moments he remembered what had happened to him as a child. 'It's much worse than even that, Morgan,' Hotch had said, not belittling his experience in the least. 'These people…'

Morgan's mind then turned towards his friend behind the door, and Oliver down the hall. "I get it," the profiler replied, chuffing the words almost in defeat. "I just…"

"You hope it didn't break him," Gibbs said matter-of-factly. "Somehow, I don't think those bastards were that thorough."

----

Reid settled into an adjacent chair next to where Ducky sat. He'd paced the length of the small room for what felt like hours, pouring his heart out to the ME that, to his credit, patiently listened to every gut-wrenching detail. "Why me?" he asked finally, hanging his head almost in defeat. "Why did this happen to me?"

"Your friend next door asked the very same question, doctor," Ducky replied.

"What did you tell him?"

"I merely surmised that it was random chance. It seems that these individuals, depraved as they were, had a reason for going after Mr. Lawrence. You, young man, were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And perhaps for good reason, if that little girl is any indication."

Reid sighed. "Story of my life." He shivered slightly as he clutched the warm blanket closer. "H-Have they come with clothes yet?"

"No, I'm afraid. As soon as they do…"

Just then there was a light knock on the door. Ducky got up to answer it, and after a few light words sent the visitor away. "Ah. Here we are." In his hands lay a small bundle of clothes. "I'll leave you for a moment to change, hmm?"

"Thank you," Reid said, accepting the articles gratefully. "For everything."

"It was my pleasure," the Scottish man said sincerely. "Now, I'll be outside…"

"Thanks," Reid said again, and watched as the man closed the door behind him. He then looked at the garments that the older man had handed him—a plain gray shirt and a pair of tan khakis. There was a green solid-color sock and a white sock with little bats stitched across the fabric, complete with yellow beady eyes. There was even a pair of fresh underwear, and Reid nearly leaped into them with both feet at once. The feeling of fabric covering the personal parts of his anatomy sent a small feeling of comfort through his framework, and he knew that he would never again take the clothing he wore for granted.

As he pulled the loose shirt over his head, a soft knock sounded at the door. "Just a minute," Reid called out, not wanting to be seen while exposed. A few seconds later, there was another soft knock, and Reid opened the door.

"Hey," a familiar voice said, trying to smile a little. "Mind if I come in?"

"Sure," Reid said softly. He admitted his friend, and Oliver sat down in the folding chair that Ducky had left vacated. "Are…are you…"

"I've got a hell of a headache, and I could use a long nap, but otherwise…" Oliver shrugged his shoulders as he heaved a deep sigh. "I, ah, wanted to, um…"

"What?"

"I wanted to thank you."

Reid looked a little perplexed. "Thank _me?_ For what?"

"Reid, I could've…" Oliver heaved another deep breath. "I could've died there. And…and I didn't. Mostly thanks to you."

"Oliver, I…"

"I'm serious. You could've let me sleep, you could've left me to my own devices…you had your own problems to deal with, and I…"

"Was trying like hell to help me, and a little girl," Reid said softly, trying to reassure him. "You took the brunt of it."

"Did I?" Oliver looked at his friend. "Spencer, I saw what that asshole was like to you…"

The memory of Oliver's 'bath' put shivers up Reid's spine. He too recalled what Raul had tried to do to him there on that bathroom floor.

"It's…it's all right."

"No, it's not." Oliver's voice was firm but not harsh. "I…I wanna help."

"You did. You tried to help us escape, more than once. You managed to get Raul away from me for awhile, even if you didn't realize it." Reid drew in a deep breath. "You…you let me do despicable things to you…"

"They _made_ you do it. They made _me_ do it to _you_." The urge to reach out and hug Reid washed over Oliver like a wave, and it was all he could do to hold back tears. "It's okay, Reid. If you and I don't talk about it to _someone_, we'll explode."

"I did," Reid admitted. "I…I mentioned some things to that doctor…"

"Ducky?"

The profiler nodded.

Oliver sat back a little and smiled a thin smile. "I did too," he admitted softly. "I took his card. Might save me the cost of a therapist…"

Reid smiled, though there was little mirth to it. "They're probably worried about us," he said, tipping his head slightly towards the door.

"I bet." Oliver stood up. "Think we should go?"

The younger man heaved a deep breath, then rose from his seat. "No time like the present."


	52. One Step at a Time

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Chase heaved a deep breath as she shifted the SUV into 'park.' The sweltering Miami sun was trying to work its charms on the investigator, but at the moment she merely felt like a lost child in an overheated funhouse. She stared out at the metal sided walls of the supply storage warehouse Kyle had managed to wrangle on short notice, realizing just how close they'd come to disaster.

_They could've killed them,_ she reasoned. _What's to say that they haven't? Lord knows death of a soul is far worse than death of a physical being…_

Her mind flashed back to the glimpse she'd gotten of Reid, lying still as a stone underneath that corpse on the beach. Chase remembered in detail the image of Oliver lying chained to that four-poster, naked as the day he was born and looking like someone had tried to kill him but mercifully failed.

_What's to say there isn't more we don't know about? More that happened that we couldn't see?_

The memory of the video clip Garcia had analyzed and allowed her to see flooded Chase's mind. _What other depravity did those sadists try?_

Tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes, and it was taking a lot to keep them from falling onto her face. _If only I'd gotten there sooner…if only I'd known before it came to this…_

A fist slammed down onto the steering wheel in frustration, the sharp sound of the horn blaring once. Chase jumped at the sound, and shrieked in surprise. Then she started to cry.

_I know them,_ she reasoned sadly, her tears falling harder. _Reid will bottle it up, never telling a soul. Ollie will try to brush it off as though it was nothing, even though he's most likely dying inside. How can I convince him that he needs to face it head on? That they _both_ do?_

The answer was not forthcoming. Chase heaved deep breaths, trying to compose herself. She wiped her face with a corner of her shirt, and struggled to look as though she'd come back from a routine meeting.

----

Kyle was the first to notice Reid and Oliver walk into the large, open end of the storage warehouse where everyone had subconsciously congregated. Watching them walk out the narrow mouth of the corridor, he stopped them by picking himself up and standing in front of them. The tech then did something unusual—he reached out and held both of them in a great hug. –I am so sorry,-- he said, working hard to not cry as he began to speak. –It took me too long to get back, and then…--

--"It's all right, Kyle,"— Oliver said, keeping his voice low. –"You found us. You didn't give up."—

The tech shook his head. He was so worked up he didn't dare to say any more. The look on Reid and Oliver's faces told him that the others were coming closer, so he dropped back to let them see for themselves that their 'lost boys' were all right—physically, anyway.

The individuals from the Navy Yard looked on at the little gathering with some interest. They noticed that their unlikely colleagues' voices were very soft, if in fact they spoke at all. There were a couple of hugs, but mostly pointed looks of understanding, and Gibbs noticed something else out of the corner of his eye—something he preferred to keep to himself.

"You think they will be all right, Gibbs?" Ziva asked, keeping her voice low. It almost seemed like an intrusion to be in the room, watching the scene.

"In time, my dear," Ducky said simply, cutting the former Marine off at the pass. "I believe they will, in time."

McGee watched silently, a flood of respect and awe welling inside him for these people and the lengths that they would go to in order to save each other—even from the depths of depravity that threatened the breaking point of human sanity. The thought of what had likely happened to Lawrence and the young doctor made the younger Naval agent shiver slightly, and he was glad that he had been able to help.

Just then a door fell shut, and the eyes in the room fell on the figure of Chase Davis trying to walk in unnoticed. –How'd it go?—Kyle managed to ask, his hands flying.

--"Everything's all right,"-- she replied. –"It's done. Now what say we head for home?"—

--"I'd like that,"— Oliver said.

--"Me too,"— said Reid, though much more softly. The two led the way out to the waiting vehicles, and Chase fell in step with her partners.

"You're on leave for a while, Ollie," she murmured. "And don't argue."

"Chase, I don't…"

--"You're not ready,"— she said simply, signing for Kyle's benefit. –"Believe me, you'll know when you are. Now is not that time."—

--"I can't just…"—

The look Chase gave him said it all. –"If you need a project, I'm sure there's a suitable one waiting at home. But you do need to work through everything that's happened, either by yourself or with somebody. There's a lot of ears willing to listen should you decide to talk."—

--"I know."—

--"I'm just sayin'."—

A few feet ahead, Reid was getting the same speech. "If you even think about coming to the office I'll just send you back home," Hotch said simply. "You need time, and you need to talk to someone."

"I took a card. I know who I'd like to see about this."

Hotch turned towards the younger man, who was doing his best to stay composed. "I don't want you falling into old habits, Reid. Even if it's three in the morning, you can call me, okay?"

"Morgan already told me he's staying at my place for a week, and reminded me he's on speed dial," Reid said, trying to crack a small smile. "I have a feeling everyone would move in if I'd let them."

"It's okay to fall back on that," Hotch said. "Plus there's someone else who might need your help too."

Reid glanced over at the trio of investigators that had become close friends. "I know," he said softly. "One step at a time, right?"

"Yeah," his superior said, his voice low. He then settled himself in one of the SUV's and closed his eyes as Morgan fired up the engine.

----

"Where the hell have you been?!" Tony cried as he saw Ziva and McGee walk into the bullpen. "The Director's been on my ass for days, threatening…well, you don't even wanna know. All I can say is, was it worth it?"

"Yeah, Tony," McGee said, settling into his chair and tapping into his keyboard. "It was."

"What were you doing, anyway? Playing hooky? Fact-finding for the next novel? Taking part in 'Probies Gone Wild'?"

"We were saving lives, Tony," Ziva said simply. "And making a few new friends."

"Friends? What kind of friends? Are any of them cute?"

"Well, there was this one woman…" Ziva said mischievously. "She was kind of cute…"

"Blonde, tall, blue eyes, hot-sex-on-legs, great conversationalist?"

"Tall, black hair, green eyes, rip-your-throat-out-and-watch-you-choke-on-your-own-bloody-tissue type," Gibbs said, tossing his bag next to his desk.

Tony gulped. "Uh…wow, Boss. Remind me not to look her up."

"Hey, guys," a familiar voice said as it rounded the corner. "Boy, is your Director crabby. You'd think he'd be all about fostering relations and whatnot…"

The look on Tony's face turned a sickly shade of green as he laid eyes on Chase, who stood in the middle of the small pathway as though she owned the Navy Yard. "Uh, excuse me," he said quickly, his eyes darting furiously towards the exit. "Forgot something…"

"What's with him?" Chase asked as Tony hastily ran for the exit.

"Oh, I think he finally saw something he didn't like," Gibbs said nonchalantly, his eyes floating down to the large Benchmade resting on her hip and her 'Hector' sitting snugly in its holster.

"Yeah, they let me in with 'em," the young woman said, acting as though the pair were having a conversation about the weather. "Permits are up to date for both, so…"

"So."

"Um, everything's square with your Director, by-the-way. Like I said, crabby, but he likes the fact that you all made friends with the FBI and, ah, 'valuable contractors'."

"Contractors?" Gibbs gave her the eye.

"What would you call it, Agent Gibbs?" Chase asked simply, turning on her heel. "Nice seeing you again. Tell Abby I'll be sending her a present shortly, and that Kyle says hello. If you need us, you've got our number."

"Will do." With that, the mysterious woman left, and Gibbs headed down to Abby's lab.

"I never thought I'd see the day," Ziva said, looking impressed.

"See what?" McGee asked.

"A woman that completely intimidated Tony," the Israeli woman replied, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Across the room, the young forensic computer analyst returned the sentiment.


	53. Memories

**Usual disclaimers. Once the story is finished I'll figure out where to archive it--new system has me all confuzzled. :) Couple more chaps to go, though.  


* * *

**

"No more."

"Ollie, you've gotta eat." Chase settled into the large overstuffed sofa, trying to connect with her friend.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine."

"Like hell." The woman watched as Oliver fidgeted with his fingers in his lap, looking over at her ham and cheese sandwich as though it were a delicacy. "I talked with the doctor. He said light food, to combat the starvation you suffered."

"Chasie, I want something _other_ than soup."

"Well, there's strawberries. Eat those then." Chase handed over the large bowl of hulled berries, the container waiting expectantly in her grip. "Besides, you like vegetable soup."

"With a sandwich. Or a cracker."

Heaving a sigh, the exasperated investigator stalked into Oliver's kitchen, grabbed a box of Wheat Thins, doled out a couple in her hand and gave them to the stubborn patient. "There. Crackers. No butter. You throw up, I'm saying I told you so."

"You do that. I've been eating nothing but broth and soup for two weeks."

"You didn't eat _anything_ while you were…there," Chase argued, trying to make her friend see reason.

"I did too," Oliver retorted. Thoughts of that first 'breakfast' he'd eaten off the concrete floor floated through his mind, and he cringed a little at the thought of how he'd been forced to intake the food. "A…A little."

"Oliver. Please. I know this sucks, but remember what the doctor said." Chase's eyes were sympathetic, but fear of her friend suffering worse from overeating after such an ordeal frightened her worse than his complaining.

"Ducky said to take it easy, not reduce my caloric intake to liquid! You really know what I want right now?"

"What?"

"A huge slab of ribs. Pork ones. Mashed potatoes. Mushroom gravy. Cam's famous cornbread—a whole three loaves of it, with that butter he makes. And a thick slice of Joe's pumpkin pie, smothered in Cool Whip." Oliver's eyes glassed over in longing for the items he'd just mentioned. His stomach growled a little just thinking about them.

"You know I'd drop this and get you all of it, too—except that you're still not ready to handle it yet." Chase sighed. "Sounds great. Now I'm all hungry."

"Don't you have to go to the office?" Oliver suddenly wanted to be alone for a while. Over the last two weeks, Chase and Kyle had stopped in more than usual, finding some excuse to stay a while. One afternoon Kyle's brother Landon 'accidentally' ended up there for a book and stayed four hours.

"I could, but there's no work," Chase shrugged. "And at the rate we're going, we don't need to for a long while."

"I'm not even going to ask." Oliver pulled his thick royal-blue bathrobe tighter around his neck. A light snow had fallen the night before, and the chill in the air made it linger on the concrete outside.

"Well, I'm not going to tell you." Chase's face was dead serious. "Not for a while. Stop focusing on work. We're fine."

"Are you?"

"As fine as we can be. Kyle's taking a trip with Beth for a while—about a week. Said he needed to put his mind on other things."

"Sounds like a good idea." The suggestive note in Oliver's tone was obvious.

"Hey, I already traveled this month, thanks. I'd rather curl up with some satellite radio and watch an old move or play some Rock Band for a while."

Oliver shook his head. "I'll never figure it out. You grew up with deaf parents, in a deaf culture, in a deaf _town_, and yet you absolutely _love_ music."

"I'm a freak. Don't tell anyone." A Cheshire-cat grin spread over the woman's face.

"Seriously, Chase, I'm fine. I'll even eat the soup."

"Oh, good, 'cause Joe's been asking if you like it."

"He doesn't know, does he?"

Chase shook her head. "I just told him that you were sick. Bad virus."

A look of relief washed over the man's face. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. You'd do the same." Standing up from the couch, Chase stretched out her arms a bit and reached for her coat. "Listen, I, um…"

"I've been talking to someone. And yes, it's helping."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Um, yeah. I'm me, remember?"

"How…"

"I know who you're talking to, not what about. That I'll wait until you're ready for, when and if that time comes." Chase then said her good-byes and started for the exit. "I'll be back later on tonight. I've got some errands of my own to run…"

Oliver said his good-byes as the door closed behind his friend. Then he heaved a sigh. _It's a good thing it's Saturday,_ Oliver said, walking towards the shower. _Otherwise Ducky'd be too busy to talk this early…_

-----

"Morgan, seriously, whatever you want is fine."

"Sandwich? I know a place…"

"Sandwiches it is, then," Reid said firmly. "Maybe a little tomato soup."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay," the older profiler said, looking back as he headed out the door. Reid sighed as his friend left, and wondered if there would come a point when Derek Morgan wouldn't think he was a fragile piece of glass.

_Now while he's gone, I'll try and clean up,_ the younger man reasoned. It had been two weeks since his rescue from that despicable place, but this was the first time he was attempting to use the shower or the bathtub. Every time he walked into the bathroom his mind wandered to those horrible 'forced baths' that Raul had made him take, and the feeling of long fingers pressing a wet cloth over Reid's naked body made him shiver uncontrollably and start to whimper like an animal that was being kicked. The memories forced Reid to wash himself using a damp sponge with some soap applied to the object, and that solution came after nearly four days of being unwashed. _I've got to kick this thing sooner or later…I can't let it get me forever, and I won't let it beat me._

Determined, Reid grabbed his clothes for the day—an old waffle-pleat shirt and a pair of loose jeans, plus underwear and socks—and set foot into the green-tiled bathroom that lay just across the hall from his bedroom. The cool tile chilled Reid's feet, and his mind began to dangerously wander towards other times and places he'd felt this cold.

_I am not there,_ Reid chanted internally to himself. _I am not there, he's not here, he can't hurt me anymore. _The image of Raul's lifeless face flashed briefly in front of the doctor's eyes, and for a fleeting moment Reid's first instinct was to cry out in anguish and fright. _He's not here,_ Reid firmly reminded himself. _He's dead…someone shot him before…before…_

Deep breaths exhaled out of the thin man, who was fighting to keep it together. He wanted to be able to send Morgan home in a few days, but at the moment Reid was still up half the night screaming, still feeling phantom hands trying to 'explore' his frame as he slept. Only the night before he dreamed he was still on that godforsaken beach, only this time Raul had accomplished what he'd set out to do. Reid had half-woken up in tears, screaming for his phantom attacker to stop. When Morgan tried to fully wake him up, he'd nearly knocked the larger man senseless for trying to touch him.

_Come on, Spencer. You can do this. We'll start small—a shower. Not the same thing as a bath. You're standing up. You can move around better, stay on your feet and have the chance to run if it gets to be too much. _

With that in mind, Reid sat his clothes down on the covered toilet seat and pulled back the glass door that encased the tub and shower. He set the water to the right temperature, and then turned the knob to set the shower head above him to spray a fine wash of droplets over his head. The young man then stepped inside the stall and let the water fall down him like a warm, steaming rain, closing his eyes as the liquid connected with his skin.

_Okay, see?_ he told himself. _This isn't so bad…_

Plucking the sponge from the side, Reid began to wash himself as he hadn't been able to in days. The scent of the soap lingered as he made sure to cover every inch of himself with the foamy lather. The hot water drizzled over him like hot fudge on a sundae, and Reid was glad he'd managed to talk himself into this small step forward.

Before long, the hot water began to run out. The beads of water started to chill and turn cold, and before Reid realized it the water was freezing. His thoughts quickly ran back to that first 'bath' he'd been given in the barn cellar, all exposed and freezing and shivering within an inch of his life.

"No," he cried, first softly and then louder. "No. No, no, _no!" _It took Reid several seconds to find the water shutoff head, and soon the cold water was pouring into the tub, pooling at his feet. He wasted no time scrambling out of the bathtub and immediately reaching for the large towel he'd brought in with him—the largest one he owned. Once he was dry, he threw on the thick green robe as though someone was about to steal it from him. Huge, gasping breaths poured out of the frightened man, and before he knew it he had started to cry.

"Reid? _Reid!"_ a familiar voice called out, coming closer to the sound of sobs that trailed down the short hallway. "Reid," Morgan said, remembering to keep his distance. "What's wrong, man?"

"I just…I just tried to t-take a shower…" The words were half-garbled by thick tears.

"Oh, man," his friend sighed, sympathy trailing through his words. "Hey, hey, you're gonna be fine, you hear me? Are you hurt?"

"N-no," Reid admitted. "It's…I can see him, see his hands reaching, see the garden hose…"

"Garden hose?" Now Morgan was slightly curious.

"Yeah. They, uh, sprayed me with one that first day there," Reid replied, hoping Morgan wouldn't need more detail. Thankfully, he didn't.

"Well, you can't go on like this," his friend said simply.

"I-I know. I know." Reid's words were almost a whisper.

"Look, I'm here, if you need to…"

"I know. And thanks. I just…you're too close."

Morgan took a couple of steps back from the room, giving Reid his space.

"Not…not like that," the younger man explained. "Too close personally."

"Hotch said something about you taking a card…?"

The statement jogged Reid's memory. "I did," he said, his tears now stopped. "I did…" Before Morgan knew what was going on, he saw his young friend racing for the telephone.

----

"Hello?" a heavily accented voice asked. "Oh, Dr. Reid. Yes, yes, I remember…you what? Certainly, my boy. I shall expect you shortly." The man then gave directions to his location and hung up. _It seems I'll be having two for dinner, then,_ he thought as he walked into the kitchen to find the right silverware. _I hope Mother didn't put the good spoons in one of her hiding spots before she moved…_


	54. This is How We Overcome

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Oliver's vintage Beetle puttered up the narrow driveway to the slightly isolated Victorian house. The place looked well-kept, and he could faintly hear the sounds of dogs barking in the distance. As he killed the engine and started to walk up the front porch, a small little feather-duster of a pooch started to bark and growl at him.

"Oh, Jesus," Oliver called. "Okay, dog, here's how it works…I'm going in, and you're gonna be nice, right?"

The little dog kept barking at the top of its lungs, as though it were employed by a top-notch security firm. Soon there were several other small dogs that joined it, now making racket as loud as they could. One of the animals decided to try and bite Oliver, missing his ankle by mere inches.

Remembering an old trick, Oliver knelt down on the floorboards of the porch and held out a hand. The barking, yapping creatures suddenly quieted, and they cautiously crept closer to smell the proffered hand. Soon Oliver turned his extended hand slightly, and now the barking that erupted from the dogs' throats was a cry for attention—they wanted Oliver to pet them.

"Works every time," he said half-aloud, aware that no one was behind them.

"Yes, it does," a voice said from behind him. The noise startled the investigator terribly, and he spun on his heel to see Ducky standing at the door of his house, watching Oliver and the dogs with interest. "Clever trick, Oliver—letting the dogs get your scent."

"Grew up with dogs," Oliver explained. "I'd have one now if I didn't leave town so much for my job."

"Ah, yes. These fellows were my mother's—Welsh corgis, noble things."

"Ah ha." It certainly explained some things to the investigator. "I'd have picked you for a setter, myself."

"Well, I've come to love the little rascals," Ducky said, ushering both his guest and the dogs inside. "The retirement home Mother moved to wouldn't let her take them, so…"

Oliver smiled. "So," he said, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

"Yes. You've come for more than a lesson on the history of the Welsh corgi," Ducky said simply. "Come, sit down." The little man led Oliver into the living room, and motioned towards a stuffed, high-backed chair. "What's on your mind?"

"She's feeding me nothing but soup, Ducky," Oliver complained.

"Oh."

"Today I got a cracker to go with it…"

"And?"

"And I ended up downing a bottle of Pepto-Bismol to keep from losing it," Oliver sighed impatiently. "It was five days, Ducky. _Five days._ Why is it taking so long to readjust my system?"

"Well, starvation is an odd thing," the ME explained. "Your mind tells you you're starving, so you want to eat. Your body, on the other hand, can't intake the food as fast as it should normally. It's atrophied a little in that respect, so the introduction of nutrients at a slow rate is critical to keep from allowing the victim to 'overeat', if you will."

"More soup?"

"Considering your reaction to bread products, I'm afraid so."

"Terrific. I'd kill for cornbread and butter."

"I think after a couple more days you can work up to plain bread, and then something a little more substantial," Ducky said, not unkindly. "Your friend Chase has called several times to ask the same questions."

Oliver fell silent a moment. "Really?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. I would think she's more concerned than even yourself, if I didn't know better." There was a slight twinkle in the older man's eye, and Oliver caught the small smile. "Perhaps this is why…"

"I thought that too," Oliver said, now settling into the real reason why he'd come. "When…when they came, it sounded like he knew about me and Kyle. For a while, I believed that they figured Reid _was_ Kyle, with him playing deaf and all."

"From what you've told me, it sounds like he was using that misconception to his advantage," Ducky said.

"He was. It worked for a while." The thought of Reid having to 'confess' how he'd been found out was making Oliver's skin crawl. The feeling had not gone unnoticed by his host.

"If I may, how did he become 'discovered'?"

Oliver bit his lip. "I…I can't," he said, shaking his head slowly. "It's not my place to say…"

Just then the sound of dogs barking startled both Ducky and his guest. "All right, all right!" the coroner called out, moving quickly to shoo the dogs from the sound of soft taps on the door. "Good heavens…"

The door opened, and a tall, lanky young man stood on his porch looking both hesitant and expectant. "Ah, Dr. Reid," the older man said, welcoming him. "Come in, come in."

"Thanks for…"

"It's quite all right, my boy. Your friend Oliver…"

"He's here. I'd know that orange Beetle anywhere." Reid smiled a little as Oliver came out of the living room, looking surprised to see him. "Hey," he said softly, waving a hand towards his friend.

"What brings you here?" Oliver asked, his voice low.

"I, um…" Reid began, trying to find the right words. "I tried to take a shower this morning…"

"Well, that's good…isn't it?"

"It was," Reid admitted. "Until the hot water ran out."

Oliver mind flashed back to that awful 'shower' that he'd endured before the real nightmare began. "Oh, God," he said, flinching a little at the memory.

"It seems we have much to talk about," Ducky said. "You don't mind…"

"No," Oliver said.

"Not at all," Reid added, almost in time with Oliver's response.

"Very well then. Shall we?"

----

After three hours, Ducky was beginning to understand why he both loved the science of psychology and did not choose it as his profession outright. It was taking a lot out of these young men to both remember and work through their horrific ordeal, and it pained the ME to realize that they both had to find their healing point on their own.

"Oliver and I had been discussing your rather ingenious plan, Dr. Reid," the man said.

"What one?"

"The one where you played deaf," Oliver prompted. "That was pretty smart."

"I figured broken merchandise--" Reid shuddered at that choice of words-- "would fare slightly better than a healthy specimen."

"You did, sort of," Oliver reasoned. "I mean, you're here now, not in some God-forsaken place where we'd never find you…"

"Yeah," Reid said softly, remembering all of the abuse he'd endured to get to this point. "I-I don't think I'd have lasted too long. He used that, though, to threaten me a couple of times."

"The threat of sale?" Ducky asked.

Reid nodded. "When…when he 'found out' about me, he threatened to sell me to the Asian market. I know what that trade is like, through research…" The young man shivered violently, as though a chill had wrapped around his frame and refused to let go.

"He used it again, with me," Oliver said, thinking of the 'performance' they'd had to put on. "Darius used that to make us 'perform' better." Oliver spat the word out as though it were lead. "I couldn't…I couldn't let them do that to you…" he added, staring at Reid as though his life and sanity depended on the profiler's answer.

"I know," Reid said. "I know. It hurt worse having to tell you how he'd found out."

"I'm confused," Ducky said. "How _who…_?"

"Raul, Darius's cousin," Oliver explained while Reid winced at the name.

"He was…" Reid gulped hard, trying to work up the courage. "He was in love with me, I think."

"He dropped around three hundred grand on you, then complained when you had to go out and 'work' rather than 'stay inside'," Oliver pointed out. "I saw…"

"That wasn't the worst of it," Reid spat. "Those baths…"

Ducky nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. "He 'found out' you weren't hearing-impaired?"

"I basically acted like I couldn't hear. Didn't act like I was paying attention much, didn't talk at all. Until he…until he…"

"I think I understand."

"No," Reid said firmly, now determined. "He was…_exploring_ me, with his mouth and his hands," the profiler continued, heaving deep breaths as he spoke. "When he…when he started performing oral sex on me, I tried to shake him off. I tried so hard, but he wouldn't move…" The determined voice was beginning to crack a little. "I couldn't get him to stop, so I…"

"You cried out," Ducky said simply, a wash of emotion surging through him for this young man pouring his heart out before him.

Reid nodded. He was now too overcome to say any more.

"Obviously he wasn't too happy about being tricked."

"No," Oliver said. "Neither was Darius. Then again, sex was never on that guy's mind."

"Really?"

"Yes. He was more about making me as humiliated as possible." Oliver then related the story of his first night at the secluded compound and his impressment into service the morning after. "It was about seeing me suffer, and laughing about it."

"I'm really not sure one version is any better than the other," Ducky said honestly. "Both were determined to 'have their way' with you, whether they were focused on degradation or a more amorous prospect." Looking over at his guests, he could tell that they'd been through enough for one day. "What say we pick this up again at a later time, hmm? I think now would be as good a time as any to eat."

"Real food, Ducky?" Oliver asked, his hopes soaring.

"Mushroom soup and crackers, and a sandwich, I'm afraid."

"Better than I've been eating," the investigator chortled. "Now, if only I can keep it down…"

"You haven't been eating?" Reid asked his friend, honestly perplexed.

"Starvation effects," Ducky explained. "You were able to eat better than he was, so yours lasted only a couple of days."

"Oh." The young man sat down to the neatly-set table, and found that the soup was better than any he'd ever eaten. He drained the bowl with a small smile and took a second helping, relieved to have worked through a fraction of the lingering problems that lay before him.


	55. 12 Step Recovery

**Usual disclaimers. I think there'll be one more chapter left to go.

* * *

**

"Good morning, Campbell Trio, this is Chase Davis…oh, hi, Hotch. What's…" There was a pause before Chase followed with "You…what? Okay, I can be there. Give me an hour." She then took her office phone and hung it up, a peculiar look on her face.

--What's wrong?— Kyle asked, noticing the look.

--Hotch wants to go for coffee,-- his employer and friend said simply. –Gave me the name of a place I vaguely know about, though I couldn't tell you why…--

--He say what it was for?—

Chase shrugged. –Probably about our mutual concern, I would think. I know for a fact the serial killers have been quiet as of late.—

Kyle shook his head, smiling. –I'm not even gonna ask.—

--Probably better you don't.-- Chase picked up her windbreaker and her wallet and started for the elevator. As she walked towards the lift, she heard a pointed tapping on wood. Turning around she signed, --Yeah?—

--If it makes any difference, I think Ollie's gotten a lot better.—

Chase gave part of a subdued smile. –I'm no doctor, but I think so too.—

----

Hotch had come to think of the corner booth at Josephine's on Constitution Ave. as a second, smaller office, or at the very least a home away from home. He'd come once on a tip from Josh Hollenbeck, and he liked the place so much he continued to come back whenever there was a 'meeting' that had to take place off the books—and once a week besides.

The senior profiler was working on his third cup of coffee when his expected guest arrived, sliding into the booth as though she'd been dragged in by a blind cat. "Cup of tea, straight, and one of those sandwiches, please," she told the waitress pleasantly but without looking up. As soon as the order had been taken, Chase said, "Okay, I'm curious. Why the meet?"

"What do you think of Oliver?"

"Is this a joke?"

"I mean, progress-wise? How is he doing?"

"Hotch. You profile all sorts of deranged or troubled people for a _living. _You're asking a layman how it works?"

"Okay, here's what I know: I know that Reid's still got a few unresolved issues, but I know where most of them came from, and the lion's share are unrelated to this last incident. I know that instead of shutting down and trying to work his problems out by himself, he's talking to someone—not sure who, but at this point I'm just happy with the result."

"You'll forgive me, Hotch, but I'm really confused now," Chase said. "Why are you asking about Ollie?"

"I'm going to give Reid the green light to return to work," the older man explained simply. "It's been over three months, and honestly, I thought it'd take longer than this." Warm sunshine poured in through the plate glass window that gave a broad view of the street outside, and the long rays managed to reach the corner booth nestled in the back.

"You think it's a good idea?" Chase wondered. "I mean, I know who Ollie's been talking to—it's a wonder the man _isn't_ in your trade, really—and I've noticed he's beginning to open up a little about what happened. Truth be told, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if Reid and Ollie have been seeing the same guy."

Hotch nodded and took another sip of coffee. "Seems likely."

Chase sighed and took a bite of her club sandwich. "It's not the emotional aspect I'm worried about, though I am worried about it," she tried to explain. "Ollie spent a month on soup, and he's just now being able to eat Cam's cornbread with honey butter. I swear he wants nothing to do with a plate of broth ever again."

"Word gets around, Chase. He wants to go back to work."

The investigator sighed. "We haven't been taking work, to be honest."

"Nothing?"

"Bank statements are fine, plenty of cash, and the bills are being paid. Kyle took a vacation a few weeks ago, and I wanted to focus on Ollie recovering."

"For three months? I know you work well, and your firm gets paid what it's worth, but…"

"Um, off the record?"

Hotch gave the woman a deep stare, but nodded his head slightly as he took another swallow of coffee.

"During the raid, Kyle managed to latch onto Darius Luna's accounts," the woman explained simply. "We drained 'em."

The profiler sat his cup down and stared. "You what?"

"Those bank balances were pretty hefty, to say the least. More money than any of us could ever use in three lifetimes, so…"

"So?"

"I gave a lot of it away. The other victims we rescued—they're getting the help they need and a new start. Esai Cormier…let's just say he got a nice bonus from work one day. The little girl, Cassie—we sent money to her family to cover her expenses for recovery. Plus several charities that combat that kind of exploitation received a few anonymous donations." Chase took a sip of her tea. "And, of course, we're covering Ollie and Reid while they've been off."

"You don't have to…"

"I look at it this way—Darius Luna and that cousin of his nearly destroyed our boys. I think there's no better use to which his money should be sent than to try and 'fix' what they knowingly and systematically tried to break."

Hotch thought a minute on that sentiment. "It does make sense," he admitted, "though I can't say I'd agree with your methods."

"You never do. Remember the 'vacation' in Pennsylvania a couple years ago?"

The image of the young woman arguing with him underneath blossoming cherry trees had stuck with him. "Yeah."

"I was right."

"You still didn't have to…"

"Oh, give it up. You're not going to change me of that, no more than I can change you from being a drill sergeant who believes everyone's problem is yours to fix. In that respect, I'd say we're a lot alike."

Hotch settled into his grilled ham sandwich. There were some fights that were just not worth winning. "About Oliver…"

Chase sighed. "Yeah. About Oliver…"

----

"Hang on, just a minute! Jesus, I know you can hear me!" Oliver tossed on his bathrobe and hurried to the door, throwing it open. "Chasie?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"Hey, Ollie," the woman said, walking in and settling on the couch.

"What are you doing up this early?"

"I had a meeting, and then I came by to tell you something."

Oliver looked perplexed. "What?"

"Do you want to come back to work?"

The older investigator laughed a little. "Chase, I'm bored out of my mind. Yes, I would—I've wanted to for a month!"

"You weren't ready then."

"Something changed?"

"Yeah. Something changed. Just don't go asking me what, though, 'cause I can't put my finger on it. You just…do you want to come back to the office or not?"

Oliver walked over and hugged his friend and employer. "Yes."

"Okay. Come back Monday. No good reason to start working on a Thursday anyway. There is one condition, though…"

"Name it."

"You still have to go see Ducky when everything's getting to you. Whatever he's doing with you, it's working."

Oliver sat down next to Chase on the couch. "We've been…talking."

"Oh?"

A sigh escaped Oliver's mouth. "I think I'm ready."

"Ready to what?"

"Tell you. What happened. I figure you know some of it by now, but…"

"I've got time." Chase removed her light windbreaker, holding it in her hands. "It's warm outside."

"Better than freezing," Oliver pointed out. He then went to change and came back out with a coat of his own. "Let's do this on a walk. I haven't been out in ages."

"Okay," the woman replied. "Whenever you're ready."

-----

"Hello?" Reid stood in the middle of his bedroom, soaking wet and clutching a towel.

"Reid?"

"Hotch? What can I do for…"

"You think you're ready to come back to work?"

A small smile crept over the profiler's face. "Yeah," he said simply. "I am so bored…" A chuckle escaped Reid's lips, and on the other end of the line Hotch turned up the corners of his mouth just a little.

"I bet. I hear you've been doing a lot better."

"Took my first bath today. A real one, with bath salt."

"That's good."

"I just…thanks."

"Reid, there is one condition to coming back…" Hotch warned him.

"What is it?"

"You have to keep going to see that doctor. The talking's helping you. I can tell."

Reid didn't want to know just how his boss knew it was helping, but he took his word for it. "Okay." It was a condition he was comfortable with keeping.

"Plus you know any of us are here for you if you want."

"I do. Thank you." The drops of water began to collect on the wooden floor and were pooling at his feet. "Um, Hotch, I hate to do this, but…"

"Oh. Catch you at a bad time?"

"I was literally in that bathtub when you called."

"Sorry. Anyway, come back on Monday. Plus I'd expect a call from our friends in Virginia before long."

Reid smiled a little. "I will. Thanks." He then hurried to the bathroom for a spare towel to dry up the water on the floor, and then settled himself back into the tub to finish his long-awaited bath.


	56. All Right

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

The sound of an old Rick Astley tune was blaring out of the speakers in the Campbell Trio's offices when Reid made his way out of the old freight elevator. Oliver was sitting at his desk, absently moving his head in time with the rhythm while Kyle had his hands firmly on the shrieking speaker next to him.

"What's this?" the profiler shouted. He was barely able to hear the sound of his own voice.

Oliver blinked once, his thoughts dislodged from their track. "Music appreciation," he called back, and he showed Reid the setup. "Yeah, it's a little loud, but Kyle can't hear it unless our ears are bleeding. He's getting the bass rhythm from the song—it vibrates more, giving him something to work from."

"Physics in action."

"Precisely." Across the room, Kyle had his eyes closed too, his total concentration focused on getting the rhythm of the song right.

--I'm beginning to understand why you guys like this stuff,-- he signed, his shoulder now pressed against the speaker. –It's kind of soothing, almost.—

--"It's also poetry,"—Oliver said, gently tapping Kyle out of his trance. –"Put the words of the song with the rhythm, and it's a story you can't get out of your head."—

--And now I'm all confused again.—

--"That's okay. Shall we?"— The older investigator motioned to the card table that had been set up, five dice gleaming in the harsh light the office provided.

--Good thing I got everything beforehand,-- Kyle grinned, motioning to Chase's desk. It was laden with large sandwiches and enough Coke and coffee to drown a goldfish. –No more surprises, huh?—

--Yes,-- Reid signed emphatically. –"No more surprises."—

Kyle gave him the thumbs-up sign. –Your sign's getting better.—

A mischievous look crossed the younger man's face. –"Hmm,"—he murmured. –"I wonder why?"—

--Has nothing to do with the intense study you get coming here for cards and dice when you're in town,-- Kyle said, shaking his head in mock-seriousness. –Nothing at all.—

--"Speaking of, how's work been?"—Oliver asked. –"I mean, it's been a month since you went back…"—

"Had to catch a killing team over in Spokane," Reid said, letting Oliver sign for him. "One lured the victims into the woods while the other actually did the killing."

--"Compliant submissive or coerced prisoner?"—Oliver asked. –"The partner who did the luring, I mean."—

"Oh, she was the dominant. She liked to watch as her male partner actually killed the victims." Reid's face told both investigators that the concept wasn't farfetched to him at all but not a pleasant one to think about.

--"It's been boring here,"— Oliver said. –"Last week we took care of some petty thefts from the chem. lab over at the college. Some enterprising student thought it would be cool to build explosives as a class project."—

"Legal ones or…?"

--He wanted to blow up a small wooden box in the courtyard. He ended up making fireworks on accident.—

The look on Reid's face said it all. –Ouch,-- he signed.

--"No kidding. Then he got slapped with a huge fine and he's up on a misdemeanor charge at the least. I swear, these kids today…"-- Oliver penciled in the score sheet and picked up the dice. –Who's going first?—

--Roll for it,-- Kyle said, signing between bites of a grilled chicken sandwich.

"That's it on your end? Fireworks?"

--"Well, we haven't had much work. I'm hoping Josh asks us for a consult soon or someone has a suspicious fire or something to investigate."—

Reid's eyes grew wide. –"Investigate? I thought you had the sheriff's department…"—

--Not anymore,-- Kyle signed, looking triumphant. –We voted in a new bylaw of the town last year. Says that both the campus police and us here in the office are the legal enforcement authority here, up to thirty miles out from campus.--

--"It's a huge help, seeing as that arrogant prick sheriff never cared much if the victim or complainant was a deaf person or someone from the college,"— Oliver added. –"I've lived here now going on four years, and I've never seen them come out for anything of any importance."—

"Hey, I worked the Lavinia murders a few years ago," Reid told Oliver. "They didn't show up then, either."

--Like I said,-- Kyle said, tossing he dice and beginning to count points. –Not useful for anything. Good riddance.—

--"Huge responsibility, though,"— Reid pointed out as he took a turn. "You split it with campus police because…"

--"Because there's times we have to leave town on business,"—Oliver explained. –"You know, when we're helping you or any number of our professional or personal friends and colleagues."-- He tossed the dice and quickly moved them on, not gaining enough points to keep rolling.

"Is the system working?"

--People are happier now that they know someone will come when there's a call, and that they can talk to the investigating officer,-- Kyle replied. –I mean, they just called us or campus police anyway…now it's a guarantee that we'll be able to wield a more 'legitimate' authority instead of Chase going head-to-head with that rat bastard south of us.—

The three friends continued playing dice well into the night. The food slowly vanished, and the remnants of empty Coke bottles and stained coffee cups lingered as the last roll was placed and the final points were tallied.

--Reid wins _again_!—Kyle signed, dropping his pen in exasperation. –Seriously, how do you do it?—

The profiler just smiled as he collected his winnings. –Magic,-- he signed back, slightly proud that he'd managed to learn that one.

--You loaded the dice.—

--I did not. I got lucky.—

_Yes, _Oliver thought. _We all certainly did._ His mind wandered back to a similar night some months before that had not gone as well. _We were lucky,_ he decided. _On so many levels. I think we'll be all right now. Maybe not what we were before, but all right. _

The thought made Oliver smile. "What are you thinking about?" Reid asked him as the pair walked back to Oliver's apartment. Though it was only three in the morning, Reid had decided to take up the offer of staying the night in Campbell before going back to D.C. in the morning. The town, oddly enough, had no established hotels of any kind, and room for the night was often found with friends or through the charity of the people in town.

"Oh, nothing."

"Come on. There's something going on in there."

Oliver smiled. "You got me. I was actually thinking on how lucky we are."

Reid paused a moment, his mind now doing a little soul-searching of its own. "Yeah," he said finally. "I guess we are. We see so much, experience so much through the course of our work, and yet we manage to cope and pull through."

"Plus we have help," Oliver reminded him. "Without that, what have we got?"

"Not much," Reid admitted. The two then let themselves into Oliver's apartment and settled in for the night. For the first time in months, neither one had black dreams or nightmares of any kind.

It was the soundest sleep either of them had had in a long while.

* * *

**And that's the end. I hope you've enjoyed this tale as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I'm planning yet another adventure with our heroes soon, so stay tuned!**


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